


Twin High Maintenance Machines

by David_Dave_Davey



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Worms (The Magnus Archives), Childhood Friends AU, Illustrated, M/M, Misgendering, Trans Male Character, anyway martin is on vacation in bournemouth for the summer and meets jon, heavly inspired by seashells by snuckybarns, hrhghrhn this really is just pages of me projecting my trans ass across shit, like jon doesnt know hes trans at the start and is referred to w she/her, lov that fic, older jon is referred to w he/him exclusively tho, trans!Jon, written by a transmale author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:27:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24986059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/David_Dave_Davey/pseuds/David_Dave_Davey
Summary: When Martin Blackwood has an especially stressful or difficult day at work, he often finds himself drifting back to a summer he spent in Bournemouth when he was a child.  He remembers the first long week, where he was sure he was doomed to isolation. He remembers how he was snapped out of isolation by a girl with over sized boots and a glare that could kill. He remembers walking through the streets, while listing to her narration. He remembers the girl who became his very best friend and the lovely little summer they spent together.Martin would love for nothing more then to see her again, for nothing more the to see what kind of a person she became, little does he know, his childhood best friend is right under his nose the entire time.
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Martin Blackwood
Comments: 303
Kudos: 482





	1. He drove in from Mexicali/ No worse for wear

**Author's Note:**

> hthgnrhgnrhhgnhrhngrh,, thank u very much for clicking this. this is the first time ive done genuine writing in 2 years and its not a pinnacle of quality. any critique/comments/ect would be very very much appreciated as im trying to get back into the flow of writing! the fic title and all chapter titles are mountain goats lyrics bc i am sad, i am trans, and i am going to make it through this year if it kills me.
> 
> this fic is very heavily inspired by seashells by snuckybarns! go read that!! its real good!! https://archiveofourown.org/works/23632990/chapters/56719081

The first thing Martin noticed about Bournemouth was just how loud the cicadas were.

Sure, he’d seen a lot of things on the drive to Bournemouth, and he’d heard a lot of sound while his mother and her new boyfriend drug him around down all day, and sure, he’d known the town where he’d be spending his summer would be different, but it wasn't until he was laying in bed that it really set in. Suddenly, everything collapsed inwards. He really was going to be in this unknown town all summer. 

Martin has few friends, and fewer of them would have wanted to spend time with him outside of school, but he felt his heart ache at the thought of not seeing any of them for three months. 

The cicadas cry, and Martin wonders how such small creatures can make such a big noise.

Martin wonders how he’ll ever sleep with that noise

Martin wonders if his friends will have forgotten about him when he comes back for school. He knows he’s never been anyone’s best friend there. That they mostly hang out out of conveniences rather than real friendship. What if they decided that they didn’t really need him anymore and stopped tolerating him at school? What if everyone realized how much of an outcast he was? What if the rest of his life was just as lonely as the first day in Bournemouth?

That night in Bournemouth, cicadas screamed, a light fog blew through the town, and Martin K Blackwood fought back tears while laying in a bed with a blanket a little too thin.

\------

Martin had spent half a week moping in the little cottage at the edge of Bournemouth before his mother got fed up. She’d told him to go explore and practically shoved him out the door. Well, as much as she could shove him, she’d always been a small woman, and even though Martin was only seventeen, he was taller than she was. 

As he stood outside, Martin remembered when he’d realized that he would likely tower over his mother and that that would happen soon. His mother had never been especially touchy, but there was something that stung when he thought about how he’d never be able to crawl into her arms and be fully enveloped ever again. Shaking off the residual melancholy, Martin double checked that his sneakers were tied and headed out into the town. 

After bouncing from one tourist-filled street to another for half an hour, Martin ended up facing the beach. The weather has been placid and grey today: a hazy cloud cover over the sand and an uncomfortable chill in the water had deterred all of the townsfolk and tourists alike. Almost all of the townsfolk, at least. About ten feet down the beach, standing in the slightly-too-cold water, was a girl.

She had her back turned to him, but Martin could see her hair, neatly braided. He could see the half faded band logo on the back of her t-shirt. He could see her skirt, pale olive and just brushing the ends of her knees, and the black leggings she was wearing underneath. He could see the tops of her chunky combat boots peaking over the top of the water. 

He hoped her socks wern’t wet, Martin hated the feeling of wet socks. How spongey they got. The way they’d be sopping wet all day. What if this girl can’t go home for hours? What if she lives on the other side of town and would have to walk all the way through town with sopping, spongy socks? What if she hadn’t noticed how far out she’d walked out? What if she couldn’t realize how close she was to being stuck with wet socks because she was so focused on the horizon? Martin couldn’t just leave her to the curse of drenched socks, so he mustered up all the courage he had, and steeled himself to call out to her.

The moment he opened his mouth, she whirled around, hands on her hips, a look that could kill across her face. 

“What are you staring at?”

Martin’s face went red as he stuttered, trying to conjure the confidence he had a few minutes ago.

“Spit it out.” she, herself spat out at him.

“I- uh I wanted to tell you that your socks might get wet standing out there!” 

Her glare turned to confusion as soon as the words left his lips.

“Why don’t you have better things to do then worry about my socks?”

Her words had a piercing quality that seemed to strike Martin’s throat when she threw questions at him. 

“I don’t really have anything else to do. My mom and her boyfriend and I only got into town yesterday.” 

She narrowed her eyes, and began to walk towards him, her hands still on her hips, her gaze pinning Martin to that spot on the beach like a butterfly to a corkboard. 

Once she’d reached him, Martin could get a proper look at her. Her thick rimmed glasses made her eyes look a little larger than they probably were. Her boots were caked in wet sand. Her t-shirt had a faded Smiths album cover across it. She had a constellation of acne framed by slightly greasy black hair. 

She squinted her eyes, and Martin hunched his shoulders, pulling his arms in front of him as he was hit by the weight of her stare again. After the longest minute of Martin’s life, she huffed, and thrust out her left hand.

“I suppose you can’t be that bad, especially if you’re here all alone. You can call me Sims.”

Almost instinctively, Martin shook her hand as soon as it was offered. 

After a moment of silence and hand-shaking, Sims looked at him and raised an eyebrow.

Oh.

“Oh! My name is Martin Blackwood.” he blurts out. 

Sims seems to roll the name around on her tongue, before meeting Martin’s eyes

“So Blackwood, you said you’re here all alone? No one to hang out with for however long you’re here?”

Martin nodded.

“I suppose, if you really want, you can follow me around. I do know all the best spots in town.”

Martin nodded, more enthusiastically than before.

“Let’s go then.” Sims said, before turning around and stomping down the beach in her slightly oversized boots, and in spite of the less than picturesque weather, Martin felt genuinely warm for the first time since he’d left for Bournemouth.


	2. You can't cross the same river twice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin found the Magnus Institute remarkably boring for an academic institution dedicated to the paranormal. Today, his day had been the exact same as the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. Every one of his days as a mid-level researcher, sitting at a small, old, wooden desk, cross checking sources on a computer that was so ancient Martin feared it would spit dust if he were to open the CD drive, seemingly dripped together. One week tumbled into the next with all the flavor and interest of room-temperature milk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey!! im back again!! i just gotta say thank u so much to everyone who commented and gave kudos and all that jazz. i know its a cliche and you prolly hear it all the time but it was so fucking nice to see that shit?? like i will not front. i screenshotted all of it and have it saved to my phone for when i feel like my writing is too shit to be seen my human eyes. idk. it really warmed my heart!! anywho, heres the next chapter! i wasnt able to work up the courage to get my gf to proof read this for me so its just my editing on here, so if you see any mistakes or anything and dont mind giving me a word in the comments id be more then happy to fix em! 
> 
> title is from rain in soho by the mountain goats, and the fic is based off seashells by snuckybarns

Martin found the Magnus Institute remarkably boring for an academic institution dedicated to the paranormal. Today, his day had been the exact same as the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. Every one of his days as a mid-level researcher, sitting at a small, old, wooden desk, cross checking sources on a computer that was so ancient Martin feared it would spit dust if he were to open the CD drive, seemingly dripped together. One week tumbled into the next with all the flavor and interest of room-temperature milk.

But Martin hadn’t taken the job for adventure, he had taken it for the money. His mother needed an assisted living facility. Martin tells himself that she needed to do it. That he would be too busy with his new job in a new city to properly look after his mother. He mostly told himself that so he wouldn’t have to think about how she squirmed away from him when he touched her. How she never ate all the food he made, grumbling under her breath about how he could never make her recipes right. How she swatted helpful hands and squashed caring words. She simply needed to go to the retirement home. It would be hard on both of them, of course, they had never been this far apart for so long, and even though she would miss him, he was simply too busy with his new job in a new city. He would be a good son and call and she would be a loving mom and listen to how his days went and then tell him about whatever nice puzzle she has been working on. If Martin told himself all of this, he could almost fog the memory of her eyes lighting up as she left him out of his mind.

Martin submitted his lie ridden CV, sat through an incredibly uncomfortable interview, and now spends syrupy, eight hours a day doing mind-rottingly boring work under the understanding that the Magnus Institute was a predictable, but well paying job. Which was why, when Martin showed up to work on what had every right to be another forgettable Monday, found his desk empty except for a sealed letter, he was a little more than slightly shocked. 

At first, he believed it to be a prank, there was another researcher, a tall, good looking man, who was infamous for the little bits of workplace chaos he could sow, but he was currently as absent as the contents of Martin’s desk. 

The next thought that blazed through Martin’s mind was a much more chilling one. What if management had found out about his CV? What if he was going to lose his job? What if this was just a small bit of public humiliation before they kick him out? What if they refuse to give him a recommendation and he can never get a job? What if he can’t afford his mother’s care anymore? What if she has to move back in with him? What if he can’t even pay for his flat anymore?

His hands shake so violently he almost drops the letter as he peels it open, prepared to see his imminent doom spilled across the page.

Martin screws his eyes shut and takes as deep a breath he can manage while peeling the letter out of its pale beige envelope. 

Cracking one eye open, Martin saw the impeccable, spider-like signature of Elias Bouchard across the bottom of the paper.

Oh God, there was no way this would be any good. Well, Martin couldn’t hold this off any longer, and began to read.

As soon as he finished, he read it again. 

The letter did not spell out Martin’s imminent job loss and subsequent doom.

The letter instead spelled out the details of Martin’s job transfer to the Archives, his pay raise, and the location of his desk’s contents, also in the Archives, waiting for him. 

Martin wandered down to the archives in a daze, reading and re-reading the letter. He was so absorbed in the words, he didn’t see Rosie wave to him until she asked him where he was going. He didn’t see the oil-like substance that was leaking out from under Artifact Storage’s door until he stepped in it and dragged oil-esque footprints across the floor. He most certainly didn’t notice the small man standing in the door frame to the Archives until he’d barreled into the man and sent him sprawling across the floor.

Oh, Martin wishes that he has been able to get his head out of his letter long enough to see the man! Or stick out his arms and catch him. Or even say something concise, sincere, and polite to apologize.

Instead, Martin stuttered for several minutes while the man picked himself up off the ground and dusted himself off. The man glared at Martin and every stuttered word shriveled and died on the back of Martin’s tongue. 

Of course, Martin has to barrel into the prettiest man in the Institute. Chin length hair the color of ink, threaded through with strands of silver. Cheekbones that looked as if they could cut glass, and a jawline that could and was currently cutting through Martin’s small, gay heart. A long nose that looked as if it had been broken once, years ago. Sitting across his nose is a pair of thin wire glasses, over green brown eyes. Martin could fall into those eyes forever. 

“Hello. Are you listening? Hello!”

Oh

The man was waving his hand in front of Martin’s face and trying to talk to him.

“Oh! Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

As soon as Martin opened his mount, the man pulled his hand down. His grimace returned as he set his hands on his hips and spoke, projecting the silky timber of his voice so that it would seep into every corner of the Archives.

“Now that everyone has finally arrived, I’ll be in my office. You’ll find your work for today on your desk. Once follow up is finished, make sure everything is printed, in the folder, and on my desk the same day. Good day.”

With that the man turned on his heels and paced to an office in the back of the Archives. An office labeled “Head Archivist”. That hot man was Martin’s boss. Martin’s new boss. Martin had introduced himself to his new, hot boss by knocking him across the floor and stuttering at him. 

“Don’t worry, Jon’s not like that all the time. I mean, he is a prick twenty four seven, but usually it's a bit more subdued then that mess.” 

Apparently, Martin wasn’t alone in the Archives. Looking around, Martin saw the man infamous for gluing all of Jared from accounting’s belongings to his desk, and a woman from Artifact Storage who he’d seen putting up mistletoe across the Institute around December last year. 

The woman chimed in.

“Yeah, don’t let him get to you. We’re all making a lot of changes today, surprise relocation and everything. I’m Sasha and this is Tim”

“Oh, I’m Martin. It’s lovely to meet all of you.”

A sly smile slides across Tim’s face.

“Well Martin, I don’t think any of us have gotten the chance to know each other yet, and I think I know the exact place to do so.”

“Lord save us all.” Sasha murmured, only half under her breath.

“All I’m saying is that if you give me two hours to swing Jon around for it, I think we should have an Archive drinking night tonight.”


	3. 900 cubic centimeters of raw, whining power, no outstanding warrants for my arrest/ Whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, whoa, the pirate's life for me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey yall. its me. im back. its been a hot second huh?? i am very sorry for the wait! i got caught up googling british shit and ended up in a long ass rabbit hole which ended when my computer crashed after i had 40+ tabs open trying to figure out the intimacy of ordering fish and chips. anyway thank yall so so so damn much for all the comments and kudos,, ,it really means the world. i may have been screenshotting all of em and showing my girl friend incessantly. 
> 
> fic is based of seashells by snuckybarns and the chapter title is from jenny by the mountain goats!
> 
> (edit on 7/23/20) added a little scene at the end bc it felt more natural there then at the start of ch 5!

Martin stood there, warmed deep inside by something he couldn’t name, for several seconds before realizing that in order to follow Sims, he’d have to, well, follow Sims. Snapping back into reality, he broke into a jog to catch up with Sims, following in her over sized footprints. 

Martin kept a stride behind Sims, both to give her space and to not impose himself much. He watched her long braid swing back and forth between her shoulder blades as she walked. Fly away hairs seemed to stick out at every opportunity, she looked a little like she’d stuck a fork in an electrical socket. Martin was half sure her hair tie was a rubber band. 

Anxieties spread like kudzu in Martin’s chest as the silent moments stretched on. What if she wasn’t actually interested in hanging out with Martin? What if she was actually trying to get away from him and he was being a creep following her? What if she felt like she couldn’t tell him to go away? What if she was scared of him? What if-

Sims had stopped. 

“Why are you walking behind me?” she asked, moving her hands to her hips.

“Oh, I, um, well I-”

“You can keep up, you know? It’s hard to talk to someone when they're dead set on walking behind you.”

“Oh, okay!”

Martin took three steps, until he was alongside Sims. Sims turned to him, and Martin saw the corner of her mouth quirk upwards for a mere second before she started back on her walk down the beach. This time, Martin kept up with her pace perfectly.

\------

Several minutes of walking passed before Martin tried to start a conversation.

“So, where are we going? Are we going to meet up with your other friends?”

Good job Blackwood, he told himself, that’s a comfortable topic, patting himself on the metaphorical back.

Sims looked over at him, Martin felt as though she was looking directly through him, analytical and cold, searching for any barb or jab that could be folded into the words.

“I don’t really have any other friends, Blackwood.”

Good job Blackwood, he told himself, what a horrible and uncomfortable topic.

She continued, the corners of her eyes slightly creased, “I don’t know about you, but I probably wouldn’t try to strike up a conversation with some weird tourist who was staring at me if I had a real social circle.”

The pit of Martin’s stomach filled with fog, low and cold. Here was the rejection he knew was coming. He’d gone and screwed up all over again. 

Sims looked over at him, and let out a small breath before gluing her eyes to the sand in front of her feet.

“I don’t get on with the other kids here all that well. I tend to hang out with my school’s theater troupe, but our show ended and I don’t like any of them enough to stick around outside shows. Mostly I keep myself company with books and the beach.”

“Theater?”

There was a glimmer of pride in Sims’ eyes as she looked up from the beach. It caught on something in Martin, snagged on some part of his guts. 

“Yeah, we just did Macbeth. I played King Duncan.”

Sims’ last words were smug-stained and hearing them, Martin could feel the brushing of some leviathan of passion in them.

“Isn’t King Duncan a…”

Like the snap of fingers or the collision of waves against the shore, Sims’ good mood evaporated and blew away on the faint breeze.

“Yeah, King Duncan is a boy. We didn’t have enough boys in theater. Do you have an issue with that?”

Sims’ words started stiff and dry, quickly bleeding into a spitfire accusation. The glimmer in her eyes was a wildfire of emotions Martin couldn’t name.

“What? No, no! Not at all. I just, well, you must be a real good actor then. To not only have to play a character but also one of another gender and all.”

The wildfire was doused. 

“Thanks, Blackwood,” she mumbled, seemingly surprised by his answer, “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat.”

“It’s okay! I think it’s really cool. I’ve never really seen Macbeth, what was the show like?”

Martin may have imagined the quick upturn of the corner of Sim’s mouth before, but the curve of her mouth was undeniable now. Whatever warm thing that had been snagged by Sims’ pride rose like a hot air balloon until it nestled itself between Martin’s ribs as he quickly matched her smile. 

Conversation flowed easier as the pair walked, side by side, down the beach. Sims could talk for ages about Macbeth, and when her vein of knowledge thinned, she was able to effortlessly segue into the other works of Shakespeare. Martin couldn’t give a toss about Shakespeare, but listening to infinite analysis flow out of Sims’ mouth lit him up with a happiness he couldn’t understand. Stealing glances at Sims, Martin realized a few things over the course of their walk. The bridge of her glasses had a hairline crack in them. Her shirt was only tucked in on the left side. The right sleeve of her shirt was slightly longer than her left. The hair tie she wore was most definitely a rubber band and not an actual hair tie. Martin wondered if it pulled her hair at all. Martin also wondered if her socks were wet.

\------

After chewing through several topics of conversation and passing several minutes of walking, Sims came to a stop, placing a hand on Martin’s arm. Sims’ grin was distinctly lopsided, and seemed to favor the left side of her mouth. She had a small dimple when she smiled, and her nose wrinkled, just a little.

“Here we are, Blackwood, the best chippie in Bournemouth.”

The best chippie in Bournemouth was, apparently, a hole in the wall shop called Chips ‘n Fish ‘n Chips, squished between a stuffy law building and a much larger, much cleaner looking restaurant. The shop was made of wood that looked to be older than Sims and Martin combined and was slathered in peeling blue and yellow paint. A man older than the building itself sat at the counter as Sims pulled Martin inside. It may have been a vibrant place decades ago, but years of sun had bleached both the inside, outside, and the man who worked there. 

Sims pulled out a laminated menu from the counter and held it between herself and Martin. 

“Do you have any allergies?” she asked.

“I get rashes if clothes are washed with Tide.” Martin supplied.

“Fantastic,” Sims turned to the man at the counter who regarded her with a look of fond exhaustion, “We’re going to have two fish and chips.” 

The man turned to the kitchen part of the shop, and began to work on their order, while Sims whipped out a worn leather wallet from her skirt pocket and hashed out the exact amount of money needed to pay for the food along with a few pounds she slipped into the tip jar.

\------

“So, Blackwood, where exactly are you from? I can tell you’re not a tourist, but I can’t place where you’re from.”

“I’m here with my mum and her boyfriend. He owns a vacation house here, so we came down from Leeds for the summer.”

Sims made a non-committal hum and popped a chip into her mouth. The fried fish was slightly cold on the outside but had a good batter, and the chips were a barely acceptable level of soggy. Martin didn’t know if he’d call it the best chippie in Bournemouth, but it was, so far the only chippie in Bournemouth he’d eaten from. 

“Blackwood, thoughts on the fish and chips?”

Martin wondered if he should lie, say they really were the best fish and chips he’d ever had. He opened his mouth to praise them before remembering how Sims had cut him through with a look before. He had a feeling she’d know if he was lying or not. 

“They’re okay, I’d probably rank them a three out of five? I tend to prefer mine a little less damp.” he replied, questioning tone creeping into his voice.

Sims snorted.

“Don’t look so worried. I’m not going to tear your throat out for having shit fish and chip opinions.”

“They’re wet! Practically drenched, Sims! If this is the best Bournemouth has to offer, the chippies here must not be all that good.”

Sims gasped and put a hand to her chest, giving Martin an expression of pure, over-dramatic, completely faked, shock.

“Blackwood, you take that back! You have the audacity to come into my town and insult the fish and chips? I’ll have you know these are not only the best fish and chips in Bournemouth, but the best in England itself!” Sims poured drama into her speech and made every word a production. Martin deeply understood how invested she must be in theater. A giggle built itself up in the back of Martin’s throat.

Sims held her affronted look for several seconds before dissolving into laughter with him.

\------

As Sims walked Martin back to the beach she swung her hand along some imaginary breeze, reminding Martin of a windsock. She kept by his side and he kept to hers, and if Martin’s gaze hovered on her cracked knuckles for a second to long and if his mind filled with thoughts of holding them, no one had to know. 

“So, would you like to hang out tomorrow?” Martin asked, hope and courage pressing his ribs outward.

“Tomorrow?” Sims responded, “Tomorrow... nope.”

Seconds before panic sunk its teeth into Martin’s soft insides, Sims continued,

“I got work tomorrow and you probably have better things to do then sit in a shit ice cream parlor for hours anyway.”

“Oh, no, I really don’t. Have anything better to do that is. It’s well, it’s a little pathetic but all I have to do otherwise is sit inside and wait for summer to pass.”

Martin’s nerves worked fast, but on this one overcast summer afternoon in Bournemouth, on an unremarkable stretch of beach, Sims’ mouth worked a little faster.

“I’ll write you the address then! My shift starts at ten.”

With that, she bumped into the back of her hand with his and Martin couldn’t wait to spend all of tomorrow in a shit ice cream parlor with Sims, someone with a shit taste in fish and chips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo holy fuck i just found you can have both end notes and start notes???? wow david, your fanfic lets you have TWO note sections where you say nothing of importance??? its baller. anyway ill try to have the next chapter up soon! im prolly gonna try to draw jon and martin from this au bc i do love them deeply. if i figure out how to link that shit i may add it on the next chapter!


	4. Let me down, let me down, let me down gently/ When the police come to get me I'm listening to dance music/ Dance music

It took Tim almost two weeks to organize, in his words, an Archive Drinking Night, trademark pending, and what a long and painful two weeks they had been. Martin’s hot boss ran a suffocating strict ship, or at least tried too. He rarely left his office, but when he did it was always to assign work, collect previously assigned work, and critique previously completed work. He tended to combine all three activities into ruthless fifteen minute visits in the assistant’s section of the archives. He seemed dead set on keeping things robotically professional, avoiding small talk like the plague and acting as if the assistants barely existed for their first week on the job. Hell, Martin only learned his name about three days into working there when he passed by his office and overheard him recording the opening of a statement.

Maybe saying Martin simply ‘passed by’ Jon’s office would be treating the truth like taffy. Maybe Martin had actually been waiting outside Jon’s office for over ten minutes trying to work up the courage to open the door and give Jon a cup of tea. 

He had thought it would have been a nice way to break some tension and start a more amicable working relationship. It would be easy, start bringing Jon fantastic tea every day and talk to him for a few moments, discover small things about him and his life, allow conversation to deepen until it would be totally natural for Martin to notice how long they’d been talking, cough up an excuse about having work that needed to get done, and then invite Jon to go out to dinner later to continue their conversation. Then it was just a few more steps and the two of them would be living in their own little apartment with two dogs and Jon would wear Martin’s over sized sweaters and they’d wake up in the same bed every morning and cuddle and-- Martin really needed to stop listening to so much Mitski during work. 

Just as Martin built up the gumption to open Jon’s door and offer him the tea, the door to Jon’s office flew open, almost of its own accord. Out stomped a steaming Jonathan Sims, muttering about files that wouldn’t record and Elias being cryptic and unhelpful. He almost stormed right into Martin, only realizing his assistant was around seconds before nearly repeating their first meeting. 

“Martin,” he barked out, “do you need something? Is that tea?” 

He gestured to the mug Martin was clutching to his chest in an attempt not to spill it.

“Martin, I don’t have the foggiest clue what would possess you to carry a mug full of tea around rooms filled with antique papers! One spilled drop could destroy a statement.”

“I, well, I thought your throat might get dry recording all those statements so I-I made you some tea. Tim said it was the kind you drank when you two were in research.” Martin sputtered out, thrusting the mug slightly forward, both hands still on it in case it got the idea to attempt to spill itself over the mug’s brim.

Jon’s expression softened for a second before snapping back into tempered sternness. 

“Right, thank you for that Martin, if you wouldn’t mind setting it on the corner of my desk, I’d appreciate it.”

With that, he walked over to Sasha’s desk, a little calmer than before.

It was little moments like that one that had melted Martin’s heart and made him wish Jon was that soft to him all the time. It stung Martin at how easily Jon slid into conversation with Sasha about following up a statement. Jon had been just as cold to the other assistants as he was with Martin at the beginning of their employment, but he seemed to ever so slightly warm up to Tim and Sasha. Theoretically, Martin knew it was because of their work. Sasha was the most impeccable and thorough with her follow ups, and in turn, Jon had come to trust her above the others. Tim, while a bit of a trickster at times, was a competent researcher with a knack for finding leads for follow ups and talking to statement givers and their relatives, and Jon had become open enough to joke with him, every once in a while. Martin had no idea what he was doing and managed to always botch up something on his follow ups. Jon held Martin at an arm or two’s length.

Martin may have been slightly jealous of the other assistants, but he got on well enough with both of them. He could easily see himself becoming good friends with Sasha and Tim, and apparently Tim could see it too. He had somehow found the one day where everyone's’ schedule was free after work and pounced on the opportunity to have an Archive Drinking Night, patent pending, and dragged them all out, metaphorically for Sasha and Martin, literally for Jon, to his favorite pub. 

\--------

“Alright,” Tim said, carrying four cheap beers in his arm, “I got everyone's’ drinks. Who here got beer?” 

He lifts up one of the bottles and shakes it lightly while wiggling his eyebrows.

Martin quickly discovers that both the other two archival assistants were lightweights, just like him, and that Jon’s professional facade would only marginally drop after one and a half beers. Jon still held his deadpan look, but he slouched forward a little and seemed to talk with his hands, gesticulating in controlled but expressive little ways. Martin thought that he could have spent the rest of the night just cataloging all the movements Jon made with his hands. How he ran his fingers through his hair whenever a strand fell into his face. How he rubbed his thumb over his knuckle when he rested his hands on the water-stained booth table. 

“Okay, as fun as it has been getting lightly drunk with all of you, it's time we acknowledge why we're really here.” Tim announced, slinging his arm around Martin’s shoulders, “We, the fantastic, genius, intuitive, wonderful, fantastic, wait- wait I said that one already, whatever, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, I have gathered you all, the wonderful archival assistant crew and our stodgy boss, here, in this pub tonight, to get to know each other better.”

“Do you have a plan as to how we’re supposed to do that other than getting drunk together?” asked Sasha, leaning forward.

“Sash, must you even ask? Of course I have something in mind!” Tim grins and Martin is distinctly reminded of Ferris Buller. “We’re going to be playing truth or dare!”

Jon sighed and spoke up, “Tim, I’m not going to get banned from another pub this close to the Institute because someone got drunk and did something stupid because of a dare.”

“Another pub?” Sasha asks before Tim jumps in, already having reloaded his response.

“Okay, fine then boss, we’ll play truth or truth. No quote-unquote stupid dares here.”

Jon grumbled but Sasha seemed interested and Martin was in desperate need of friends, so no one objected when Tim leaned over Martin to ask Sasha if she’d like to pick truth or truth.

“Hmm, after long deliberation, I have decided to choose truth.”

Tim looked a little like the three mouthed emoticon. “Do you think I’m cute?”

If Martin was charitable, he could say that Sasha looked Tim over, that she really took in his appearance and personality. Instead Martin was feeling accurate, and the question had barely left Tim’s lips before Sasha told him no, point blank.

Tim made a real show out of her response as Sasha rolled her eyes and asked Jon with a knowing glint in her eye, “Did you ever do theater?”

“Ah, yes I was. I minored in it during uni. Why do you ask that of all things?”

“I’ve seen how far you get into statements, there’s no way you hadn’t at least dreamed of playing Macbeth a little.”

Jon mumbled and Tim laughed and mimed holding up a skull with his beer bottle while trying to impersonate Jon’s voice.

Martin took another sip of his beer, laughed at Tim’s antics, and let what could have been an awful, nerve filled night slip into a comforting conversation between a group of almost-friends. 

\-------

“Maaaaartini,” Tim drawled, drunk as a fiddle, a devilish question already on his tongue, “tell us about your first time.”

Jon sputtered into his drink, while Sasha spluttered out, “No! Tim you can’t ask that.”

Tim sighed, and replied, “You both have such dirty minds, I’m so ashamed to be seen with you all. I _was_ going to ask Martin about his first time _in love._ ”

Sasha raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, the first time I fell in love? I don’t know why you’d want to know, but it was years ago. I was a teen on vacation in Bournemouth and I met a girl and-” 

Tim looked giddy at this. “A summer romance! How romantic Marto! Did you have your first kiss under the stars or something?”

“Yes. Yes I did.”

The heat brushing Martin’s cheeks was enough of a signal for Sasha to ask, “What happened between the two of you?”

“Oh, well, things didn’t last, I left after the summer was over and I couldn’t contact her for months. After all that time I felt like I couldn’t just pop back into her life, so I never emailed her or anything.”

Both Tim and Sasha had angled themselves towards Martin, enraptured in cheap beer and lost love. Their wide eyes and curious expressions prompted Martin onward. He looked towards the corner of the table where the booth met the wall and conveniently, where Jon’s hands rested.

“I really wish I had kept up with her, she was an amazing girl. I’d do just about anything to find her again. I know she’s probably changed a ton, and I don’t know if we’d still connect, but I feel like she’d still be the same girl after everything, you know? Maybe I’m just being a bit of a romantic…” Martin trailed off, scratching the back of his neck.

“No, no, that’s beautiful Martin!” Sasha supplied.

“We’re all going on a road trip to Bournemouth, Martin, we’re going to find you your girl.” Tim declared.

Jon remained silent. While the other two both drunkenly waxed about Martin’s supposed true love, Jon sat ram-rod straight. His eyes were cold as ice. 

Martin’s eyes caught his, and if looks could kill, Martin would be nothing more than a splatter across the sticky vinyl booth. 

Jon quickly and curtly asked Sasha to let him out of the booth. He gathered up his coat, gave Sasha and Tim a nearly mono-syllabic goodbye before briskly and stiffly walking out of the pub.

“Geeze,” Tim said, “wonder what got into the bossman there. Maybe he was having too much fun and had to leave before he broke out in hives.”

Martin tried to laugh at Tim’s joke, but couldn’t find it in himself. The assistants held onto the night for an hour more before breaking off with promises to do so again in the near future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guess whos back! i finally got my shit together for long enough to write a chapter! also i have a planned outline for this fic! >:-D i feel so damn professional! the title is from Dance Music by tmg 
> 
> i also made some shitty art of Jon and Martin as kids from ch 1.. if anyone is interested...  
> https://ceaselesswatcher-watchthisbitch.tumblr.com/post/623715176757264385/kid-jon-and-martin-from-the-fic-im-writing-i
> 
> that also links to my tma sideblog! if u have asks or want to yell at me or anything contact me there!!
> 
> also fun fact! i was talking about this w a friend of mine who'd proofread a bit of ch 1 and they mentioned that they thought the decision to give martin real visible anxiety was a good one.  
> and i told them i had no idea what they were talking about!  
> and they pointed out all the bits where martin's thoughts 'spiral' into self depreciation and doubt!  
> and i told them thats just how people think!  
> and they told me thats anxiety 
> 
> anyway after a good long chunk of self reflection, i may have some issues with anxiety. the more u know
> 
> im almost done rambling now but i just wanna say thank u sm to everyone who commented and kudosed and all that jazz,,, it really means the world <3 <3 <3!!!


	6. And you pointed your headlamp toward the horizon/ We were the one thing in the galaxy God didn't have his eyes on

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from Jenny by the mountain goats (i know i used it for the last kid chapter, but it’s a damn good song)
> 
> heyyyyyy im back! its only been.... too fucking long! anyway. i have a new chapter! this one's a little longer bc ive finally established enough shit i can slide into writing in the same way i did for All Hail the Mysterious Gap, aka, just making a good bit of vaguely connected scenes that make me feel soft 
> 
> quick tw, theres a few mentions of like internalized and social homophobia towards the end of the chapter

Martin stood outside Sprinkle's Ice Cream Parlor, he felt a kind of terror he would believe was unique for decades, a deep fear he wouldn't feel until he stood at the steps of the Magnus Institute with a CV filled with lies and a heart filled with back-against-the-wall determination. Martin felt dressed down, as if every one of his organs and insecurities had been taken out with surgical precision, that they’d been set upon labeled pedestals for an entire world’s worth of gazes to bear down upon.

His knees turned to butter in the hot sun and his hands shook and sweat impossibly hard. He was a fool. Sims was way too cool to actually bother wasting her time with him. It was all a prank, she was going to watch him make a fool out of himself. Or worse, he’d actually made Sims horribly uncomfortable and she gave him a fake address because she thought he might have followed her or something if she hadn’t. 

He stilled himself and pushed forward. Martin would simply walk in, see that Sims wasn’t there, realize he was a fool, run home, try not to cry, and hide in his room for the rest of the summer.

What a simple, wonderful plan.

A simple, wonderful plan that was immediately spoiled when he pushed open the door to see Sims leaning over the counter, looking like she’d been vomited on by a clown.

Looking up at him, she stuck him to the floor where he stood with a snarky grin. Martin’s entire chest felt like it was thrumming, vibrating from the inside out.

“There you are, Blackwood, I was worried you were going to ditch.”

\------

“Have you been working here all summer?”

“Yeah, and I can’t wait to leave.”

“Not a good job?”

“Not at all. I’m made for bigger things, Blackwood.”

“Bigger things?”

“I’m going to go to Oxford. I’ll get a degree and leave Bournemouth forever.”

Martin didn’t mention that he didn’t understand why Sims would want to leave Bournemouth, it seemed like a wonderful little town.

“A degree in what?” he opted for, instead.

“... Not sure yet. Maybe I’ll get all of them.”

_”All of them?”_

“Yes, say Blackwood, do you think doctorates stack? If I get two doctorates would I be Doctor Doctor Sims?”

“I think if you get all the degrees at Oxford you’d have more than two doctorates.”

“You’re right, I’ll be Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor Doctor etc. Sims.”

Martin huffed out a laugh.

“What about you? What are you going to do after this summer?”

“I’m, well, not sure.”

“Come on, Blackwood, you have to have something you’re interested in.”

“WellIsuppostIlikewritingpoetry.” Martin forced out.

“Hm?”

“Well, I mean, I suppose, I kind of like writing poetry, a little bit.”

“Poetry?”

Martin nodded and glued his eyes to the floor.

“Hm, can’t say I’m a fan myself, but as long as its not the wishy-washy stuff poetry is fine.”

“If you get all the degrees at Oxford you’re going to have to take several poetry courses.”

“ _Damn_ , I suppose we’ll just have to take the poetry classes together?”

She was looking intently at the register, nearly opposite Martin as she asked.

“Y-yeah, that sounds great!”

She beamed at the counter.

\------

Martin thought Sims was very cool and very, very smart, but he had no idea how she kept her job at the ice cream parlor. She glared at customers, and frequently ignored her staff duties to talk with Martin.

\------

Ten thirty seven am on a Tuesday was, evidently, not a popular time for ice cream. The shop was empty, excluding Sims and Martin. Even Sim’s manager had left to take his ten minute break over thirty minutes ago. 

Martin found his thoughts floating into the painfully abstract as he stared at the circular motions of Sims’ hand while she wiped down the counter.

“Hey, Blackwood, do you want some ice cream?”

Martin’s head fell down from the clouds, resting on his shoulders as he turned to Sims.

“Oh, well, yes, but--”

“Sweet, what do you want?”

Sims had already pulled out two large, paper bowls and started filling her own.

“I like mint chocolate chip, but I really don’t have any money.”

“Hm, here then.” Sims popped open the register and grabbed a fiver and three singles before stuffing them into Martin’s unwilling hand.

“S-Sims! This is like, double theft!”

Sims rolled her eyes before moving back to the ice cream counter and filling Martin’s bowl. 

Idling back to the register while completely ignoring Martin’s stuttering, Sims pushed the bowl of mint chocolate chip towards Martin and expectantly held out her hand.

After a moment of raised eyebrows, Martin gently put the cash into her palm.

“See? Perfectly, legally paid for.”

“I’m almost certain that’s not how that works.”

Walking around the corner, ice cream in hand, Sims sat down across from Martin and began to dig into her ice cream.

“What flavor did you get?” Martin asked, eyeing her bowl.

“Rum and raisin.”

Martin snorted, before Sims shot him a look.

“That was a joke right? You’re not eighty.”

“Blackwood, I’ll have you know rum and raisin is the best ice cream flavor.”

“How can you say that when every other flavor of ice cream exists?!”

“I can say that because it's true.”

\------

Half an hour of heated ice cream discussion later, Martin was still sure that rum and raisin was disgusting and Sims was still rock solid in her belief in the extreme quality of both rum and raisin ice cream and of her opinions.

Martin felt like Sims could have gone on defending her horrible taste in food ‘til time crumbled, but tragically a customer and her child broke their little ice cream courthouse and called Sims back to work.

\------

Several days and bowls of ice cream later, Martin had fallen into comfortable, friendly routine. Every day Martin would walk from his residence to the ice cream parlor on the far side of town, spend the entire day with Sims, and then walk home himself.

He’d thought he’d happily spend the entire summer in this exact routine until Friday afternoon. The sun had begun to set, and Sims had disappeared around back to take off her uniform and change back to her normal clothes.

Martin threw out their trash and got ready to walk home. Sims quickly joined him, wearing a pair of old blue jeans, two flannels, one as a proper shirt and one tied around her waist, and her beaten combat boots.

“Mind if I walk home with you today, Blackwood?”

“Of course not!”

Her mouth curled into a smile and bumped her shoulder against his.

\------

“Sims, d’you think you can see the stars when it gets a little darker?”

“Not in town, but it’s you walk a bit you can see them.”

“Mhm, you can’t really see them in the city. I’ve always wondered what they’re like out here.”

“Hm, does your mom mind if you stay out late?”

“Not really, she doesn’t really notice.”

“Well then, let’s go.”

“Go?”

Sims took off with a run, calling to Martin.

“Come on, we’ll need to hurry if we want to grab some supplies for our trek.”

\------

Stopping outside a little gas station at the edge of town, Sims started rifling through her pockets while panting.

“What, huff, are we here for?” Martin asked.

Sims shot him a sly smile made of glee.

“Dinner, of course.”

\------

“Ick, I hate these crisps, they’re always so stale.”

“So you like soggy chips, but you draw the line at stale crisps?”

“My taste in fish and chips is impeccable, Blackwood, don’t forget it.”

\------

The little gas station was grimy and washed out in the way all gas stations tend to be. Overpriced, week old sandwiches and watered-down, overpowered coffee permeated the store. The tired employees haunted the floor. Neither Martin nor Sims could find any pleasant looking snacks or sweets, but right up front there was a bin of fruit.

The gas station had a sale on mandarin oranges that lucky day, three for a pound, so Blackwood and Sims left fifteen oranges richer.

\------

The sky had fallen into hazy darkness while Martin and Sims walked out to wherever Sims was leading them, only lit by the fuzzy, yellow-tinged light from the streetlamps. 

Conversation had fallen off them several minutes after leaving the gas station, they walked in silence for stretches, only broken when one of them thought of something to share.

Busy boardwalks bled into sprawling suburbs bled into outgoing roads and stubby trees, and Sims and Martin kept walking. 

The quiet was comforting, and under its soft blanket Martin looked at Sims and let his mind wander outside of their little slice of safety.

Martin knew at his age he was supposed to start developing feelings for girls. He’d seen other boys at his school gather around magazines of pretty women and heard them brag about getting girlfriends. In a moment of rare communication, Martin’s mother had The Talk with him, and had made sure he knew how important it was to use a condom. Every show Martin watched had a beautiful boy and girl falling in love. Every poem he read was a dedication of love from a Romeo to his beloved Juliet. He understood what he was intended to feel, and yet, he couldn’t justify how his eyes strayed to the Xander when watching Buffy, or why his chest ached after brushing fingers with Michael from math class, or why all his visions of a future never included a wife to come home too.

Martin wondered if he was supposed to like _like_ Sims.

Martin wondered if he did like _like_ Sims.

He didn’t know, not really. Somehow he felt, somewhere deep in that unknown part of himself, that what he might feel for Sims wasn’t the kind of thing he’d see on TV, no matter how much he wished it was.

\-------

Sims stopped them about ten minutes away from the last residue of town. She pulled Martin down to where the water lapped at the shore and sat down. Reaching into one of the plastic bags they’d carried, she pulled two oranges and passed one to Martin.

He turned his head towards the orange in his hands and began to peel it. Sweet-smelling peel stuck under his fingernails, and sticky juice on his hands, he pulled out the first slice.

Sims had already stuck her first piece into her mouth, and had begun to toss the orange peels into the waves.

She watched the peels bob in the water, before setting her hand down next to Martin’s and turned to him.

She said nothing and used her left hand to eat an orange slice.

Martin said nothing and fumbled with the orange in his lap, feeling as if his hand was pinned to the sand, an inch and a half from her’s.

Martin wondered if this was a movie, if this would be the part where he was supposed to lean in and kiss Sims.

He didn’t, instead, his mouth moved before he could think about what he was saying.

“I-I don’t think I’m like the other kids, sometimes.”

They both went quiet for a moment.

“I don’t think I am either.”

Martin wasn’t expecting that, yet he couldn’t have imagined anything else. Confessions pressed at his lips, he wanted to tell Sims everything. Years of confusion, hundreds of hours spent yearning to be normal, thousands of little comments and implications that were never true.

“I don’t know if I can love correctly.” is what he settled for.

Sims hummed in agreement.

Even the waves sounded muffled and far away.

“I think I might be…” 

Martin couldn’t finish the thought. He couldn’t find a good word. Everything he’d ever heard to describe people like that, _people like him_ , were tainted. Only every spoken with malice and distaste. Only ever spoken when in reference to the other, the outsider, the stranger. No words to paint himself with. No words for which to hold close against all odds. No soft words for private moments spoken on tentative friendships and night-time beaches. 

Martin couldn’t say anything.

“I think I might like boys and girls.” Sims said, her speech cutting through the silence like an unsteady, nervous knife through butter.

“I don’t know if I like girls at all.” 

“I’ve never told anyone that.”

“Me neither.”

Eyes met and tears pricked at them. 

Sims moved her hand to cover Martin’s.

It was extremely hard to eat oranges one-handed, and even more so to peel one, but neither of them had ever eaten oranges so sweet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> any way! im gonna try to throw together the next chapter soon! ive been real busy trying to both get my pilot's licence and my driving licence AND do all my summer work that i havent done yet so im a tad. busy. asdghfjkgasdafsdjkaf 
> 
> also tysm to everyone whos added a comment or kudos or anything,, you give me SO much serotonin


	7. The path to the awful room that no one will sleep in again/ Was lit for one man only, gone where none can follow him/ Try to look down the way he had gone/ Back of the closet whose depths go on and on and on

The day after first Archive Drinking Night, patent pending, Jon and Martin’s relationship had turned from detached but cooperative to downright glacial. When Jon would leave his office and disperse the next batch of work for the assistants he hardly looked at Martin. He would discuss leads with Sasha and listen to Tim recap all the phone calls he’d made with statement givers or their relatives. He would drop Martin’s work onto his desk, a scribbled sticky-note stuck to the front with his instructions. It would have been easier if Jon had just become meaner to Martin, but Jon had given Martin frost burn from the sudden cold shoulder. Jon only talked to Martin to thoroughly dress down Martin’s mistakes in his work. Nonetheless, Martin made him tea, slipping it into his office during the few precious moments when he slipped out. 

Martin’s initial physical attraction for the man still smoldered somewhere between his ribs, but it had been outshined by his desire to not lose his job. He didn’t know if he could find another well paying academic institution that would take very fake CVs. Besides, Martin had a smattering of self respect, and wouldn’t fall deeply in love with someone who treats him so poorly without reason. 

When a statement giver came in, obviously distressed, Martin made her tea, offered a comforting word, and tried to give her a warning about Jon’s abrasive nature. Watching her storm out, furious and grieving, Martin assumed she probably didn’t put in a good word about the nice ginger man who made her tea with his boss.

\------

One morning, a statement about a man named Carlos Vittery had appeared on his desk with a quickly scrawled note instructing him to do very thorough follow up on it. 

Very thorough follow up. Martin _could_ do very thorough follow up. Martin _would_ do a very thorough follow up. 

\------

After half an hour of masterful, yet intensive googling and help from the other two assistants, Martin had a copy of the coroner report, an apartment address, and the keys to Tim’s car. All he needed now was Jon’s approval to head out.

God, he needed Jon’s approval to head out.

Waiting outside the Head Archivist’s door to make sure there was no recording going on for a second, Martin twisted open the door. Jon looked up, light glinting off his glasses, flat expression on his flat.

“So, uh, well, I-”

“Come on Martin, spit it out, _please_.”

“IneedtogoouttofinishfollowupontheVitterystatement.”

“Pardon?”

“I need to go out to, uh, finish follow up on the Vittery statement.”

“Oh, okay. Make sure to save receipts so the Institute can pay you back.”

“Thank you.”

Martin turned on his heel and closed the door before he heard Jon’s response. He couldn’t believe that went so well. He only stuttered a little and didn’t bumble over himself assuming Jon didn’t know what a bird was. Taking a quick look around to make sure Tim or Sasha wasn’t around, Martin whipped out his little victory dance. 

Hell yes, Martin Blackwood, you upheld a thirty second conversation with your boss. You are the king of the world. An absolute God. You’re crushing this.

\------

Martin loved Tim’s car. It was a tiny, piss colored, four seat car from 2006 that was covered in tacky car decals. It always ran, it had a reasonable fuel burn ratio, and best of all, it had a functioning aux cord. 

Slipping into the car, Martin adjusted his mirrors, threw Vittery’s address into Google Maps, plugged in his phone, and pulled up his Mitski playlist. 

It was time to _jam._

\------

Was Martin getting judged by the nearby construction workers for headbanging along to Nobody? 

Probably.

Did Martin care??

Absolutely not!

\------

Okay, maybe Martin cared a little. He turned down the music by about ten percent and decided it was best to only mildly headbang.

\------

Pulling into the little parking lot adjacent to Vittery’s old flat, Martin quickly turned the car off and took a moment to collect his documents. A new couple had moved into Vittery’s flat a few weeks ago, Vittery’s obituary listed that he’d died covered in spiderwebs, and his landlord stressed that there was never a spider infestation in any of the flats.

Deep breath, Martin. Get in, get some pictures of the place, do _thorough_ follow up, get back. Jon would, well, maybe not be impressed, but certainly satisfied. Especially if Martin brought back proof that the ghost spiders were fake, if his disposition towards both spiders and the supernatural were any indicator. 

After pressing the buzzer, Martin waited, pulling his phone out, checking his texts.

12:23pm sashmaster -> Fantastic Amazing Topical Archive Assistant Server 

**sashmaster:** 12 pm and Jon has already asked me to perform a third crime today

 **bifurious:** make sure to put it on the crime board!!  
**bifurious:** ur giving me a run for my money this month

 **sashmaster:** Shame you havent had to have to “romance” any cops this month

 **bifurious:** i still have no idea how i got jon to believe that  
**bifurious:** he still thinks im seducing cops left and right  
**bifurious:** mostly i just talk to them sdjfgdg

 **sashmaster:** It is very good  
**sashmaster:** Martin I see you in chat, are you committing any crimes today?

 **teaking:** hopefully nothing serious!

 **bifurious:** boooooo

 **teaking:** i mean i think i drove a little above the speed limit? And i might have to break in to this building if no one answers...

 **bifurious:** hell yeah 

[read by sashmaster, teaking]

No answer from the buzzer. Martin pressed it twice more. No answer. 

If Martin was reasonable, he would take this as a finished job, and go back.

Martin was not being reasonable, he was being thorough. There was a window to the basement that looked unlocked.

\------

As Martin crouched down to investigate the window, he almost set his hand upon a small, thrashing worm. Recoiling, he scrambled back, eyes wide, as the bug squirmed and charged after him.

After assuring himself that there were no more worms, he took another look at the creature on the ground, and immediately brought his shoe down upon it, spreading its sickly green guts across the grass.

Martin picked the least important of the manila folders he carried and scraped the worm guts away from the window. He pressed the window open, finding as unlocked as he’d thought it would be.

Sparing a glance into the pitch black basement, Martin got ready to head in.

\------

It became readily apparent that this window was not made for an adult man to wiggle inside, especially not one Martin’s stature. 

Hitting the basement floor feet first, Martin was immediately hit by the musty, sicky smell of the basement. Dust was so thick in the air it was nearly palpable on Martin’s tongue when he took an open mouthed breath.

Apparently their landlord didn’t clean down here much.

Looking around, he saw shadowy almost-figures moving between the dust motes and thick spiderwebs. Sounds of scraping and squirming were coming from somewhere deep in the basement. Martin felt like something was watching him. Realizing that the stairs up to the flats was across the floor, Martin scrambled for the door.

\------

Martin took the stairs up to the flat two at a time, mentally preparing exactly what he was going to say. 

Standing at the door, Martin knocked. It swung open to reveal a short, busy looking woman, who almost immediately began speaking to Martin in a language he didn’t know. He stuttered out a reply that he didn’t understand what she was saying, and the woman gestured to a man who was standing behind him. As soon as Martin took his eyes off her, she closed the door.

The man was tall, with a well cut, charcoal suit, a tight haircut, and dark skin. 

He raised an eyebrow and introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Yassir Kundi, I own the building here. What, exactly, are you doing?”

“I-um, I am investigating and I was, uh, buzzed in by an upstairs resident.”

The hard set lines of Yassir’s shoulders smoothed, his tone much less confrontational, “Ah, what are you investigating?”

“Oh, Carlos Vittery, do you know anything about him?”

“I do recall a little, he was an odd man, always keeping to himself. He has a very polite little cat, but it lives in number two now. He was certainly unique, but why are you looking into him?”

“I’m looking into his death and the days before it.”

“He passed? What a shame, well I don’t know much else. He was a remarkably private man.”

“Well, thank you for the help! I think I’ll head out now.”

“Have a nice drive back.”

“You too! Ah-wait, not what I meant, you have a nice day too!”

With a final verbal fumble, Martin speed walked back to Tim’s car before he could look Yassir in the eyes.

\------

Really, Martin though, _you too_??? God, that man must think you’re an idiot. 

The drive back was rather uneventful, although Martin did get stuck in a horrible bout of traffic, causing him to get back late, long past six ‘o clock. 

Parking the car, Martin realized that Tim had sent him a message around closing time.

5:17pm bifurious -> teaking

 **bifurious:** yo im gonna take the tube home today, so ill hust grab my car from you tomorrow  
**bifurious:** *just

Martin quickly typed out a reply thanking Tim and promising him that he’d return the car tomorrow. The Institute was closed, completely locked up. Martin sighed, shuffled his notes, and decided to give them to Jon tomorrow.

\-----

Halfway back to his own flat, Martin paused, and punched Vittery’s address into his GPS again. There was something in that basement and Martin was going to do _very thorough follow through_ about it.

\-----

Martin flicked open his flashlight phone and pushed open the window. Taking a deep breath, he slid down into the basement. 

The basement was just as eerie and unsettling as it had been earlier, if anything, it was worse now that there wasn’t any sunlight streaming in through the windows. The cobwebs were thick with dust, every strand of silk pulled towards the ground under their own weight. 

Poking one cobweb with his finger, Martin was immediately hit with a sneezing fit. Crouched over, sneezing, Martin heard the sound of footsteps behind him. Whirling upwards, his flashlight pierced the thick darkness, catching a flash of movement on the ground. Martin approached it, realizing it was another worm. He stomped on it quickly, rubbing its guts off his sneaker. Moving his flashlight across the floor again, he saw another worm, and then another, and then another.

The flashlight caught against a figure standing several feet away from Martin. She was short and swaying gently. Long, oil-slick hair dripped down her shoulders, covering her face. Her long, grey overcoat fluttered, as if something was squirming underneath. Martin’s mouth went dry, breath catching on the inside of his throat. Her flesh was honey-combed with holes, fat, white worms squirming between them.

She stood there, panting and swaying slightly.

Martin turned and ran as fast as he physically could. Scrambling up to the window, his phone slipped out of his hand and clattered to the floor.

Maybe it was adrenaline, maybe it was pure fear, but Martin found it shocking easy to pull himself up through the window. Slamming it down behind him, he made a break for Tim’s car. 

As he started up and pulled out, Martin thought he saw a flash of movement near the window.  
\-----

Martin’s heart pounded the entire way back to his flat. He half sprinted up to his floor, and locked the door firmly behind him. Slumping against the door, Martin took a long, slow, dragging breath. That thing was gone. It was in the basement. He was safe. 

He was going to make a cup of tea and go to bed. 

Report follow up, return Tim’s car, and deal with his missing phone tomorrow, he told himself, calm down right now.

\------

Sometime around three am, Martin was awoken by an intense pounding on his door. Shaking himself awake, he pushed off the covers and rubbed sleep out of his eyes. He stumbled forwards, navigating his flat in the pitch black, heading towards his front door. Or he was, until Martin felt something squishy under his foot. Then, he was hit by a sharp, piercing pain in the underside of his foot. All vestiges of sleep abandoned him immediately. Moving backwards, Martin fumbled and flicked on the light switch. 

A bulbous, white worm thrashed on the ground, its little black head bobbing in the air. 

More worms were crawling from under his door frame. 

Martin was hit with a rush of panic as he scrambled to grab a book to squish the worms.

The knocking rang through the flat again.

Martin shoved towels under the door crack, trying to stop the flow of horrible little bugs.

Another knock sounded across, cutting through Martin’s mind like a knife through pudding.

He stood up, shakily propelling himself forward to look out the little glass peephole, seeing the thing he was dreading the most.

The wide, smiling, hole ridden face of Jane Prentiss starting back at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO WERE HALF WAY WHERE WHOOOO-OOOO LIVIN' ON A PRAYER
> 
> adshfdjkf fr tho i am SO sorry about how damn long this update took ashdfj life got ahead of me and i didnt have the energy for a full fic. anyway i dedicate this chapter to Zinkers, your comment kicked me in the ass and got me to finish this chapter! agsdhfj i think im gonna try to update this fic once every two weeks until its done, but if you want more of a fill of my writing, yall can check out my chatfic here ->  
> [I am healthy, I am whole, I have poor impulse control](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26399284/chapters/64308955)
> 
> fr tho, thank everyone so much for comments, kudos, and bookmarks. it really makes me super happy and keeps me motivated to write! i hope yall have great days today 
> 
> also. is it just me or is all of ao3 a little red tinted now?? maybe my eyes r just going :-P
> 
> title from philippians 3:20-21


	8. It may be a long while before the highway/ Decides to finally set me free/ I'm going to have to chase down the remnants/ Of something special that you stole from me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey just a heads up for this chapter  
> TW-
> 
> -blink and you'll miss it implied homophobia in Martin's conversation w his mom's boyfriend  
> -canon typical shitty parents for Jon and Martin

Days turned to weeks turned to a month and a half. Blackwood and Sims shifted into a routine, they’d spend the days that Sims’ worked together at the ice cream parlor, then they’d walk around town for the remainder of their time, from eight am to eight pm every day. 

Martin learned that Sims’ second favorite place in town was an abandoned theater and that her favorite was the town library. He found that Sims would bring Shakespeare plays and recite lines while walking across the stage. He learned that she would eventually pester Martin into stumbling his way through lines, forming an awkward little back and forth between them. Martin also found the only thing that could break Sims from a monologue was a spider, something she had a terrible fear of.

Normally, Martin would have scooped up the spider, taken it outside to be free. But in the moment, after seeing Sims screech and scramble away, the only thing he could think to do was to bring his shoe down on the bulbous, black arachnid. 

Over time, they explored every place in Bournemouth one could walk to and then some. 

Sims learned that Blackwood loves to copy down poems he liked onto scrap paper and save them for later. She learned he liked to collect pretty rocks and took him to scour the less populated beaches for good stones. She found he hated the cold and loved jumpers. 

They both discovered each others’ favorite kinds of tea, their favorite songs, their least favorite books. They learned that they’d both been bullied and were outcasts at home.

They both learned that they weren't outcasts that summer.

\------

Martin knew very little about his mother's boyfriend other than that he looked nothing like Martin or his father. He supposed that he was a nice enough man, he’d been financing their entire summer for the most part. His mum had only had three boyfriends since his dad left, and while Mark Delano wasn’t his favorite of the three, he wasn’t bad. He was certainly nicer than his mum’s last boyfriend, and he seemed content to ignore Martin and let him come and go as he will. He usually never tried to start conversations with Martin.

At least, he never did until a month and a few weeks into their trip, a little more than halfway through Summer, and a night after Martin’s mother had yelled at Martin for making too much noise when he got home.

Martin was eating microwave oatmeal in his pajamas pants, thinking of what he would do with Sims today when Mark approached.

“So, kiddo, you, uh, like sports?”

Martin grimaced, quickly hiding his face in his oatmeal.

“No, not really.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“What about cars?”

“I can drive but I don’t really have much other interest in them.”

“Hm, well, what do you like?”

Martin lifted his spoon to his mouth, stealing silent seconds to contemplate his answer. He really wished that he was at least interested in something normal for boys his age to be into. Martin could picture the look on Mark’s face if he mentioned his love of poetry. The silent, slightly hostile tones Mark's voice would take. The small but ever present rejection.

In the end, Martin settled on his go to reply.

A single, succinct, shrug.

It seemed to stall Mark for several moments, giving Martin time to appreciate his brilliant move. Hell yes, Martin Blackwood, he thought, you are crushing this interaction.

“Where do you head each day?”

Shit, Martin Blackwood, he thought, you are being crushed by this interaction.

“Uh, nowhere really.”

“Nowhere, really?”

“I just hang out with a friend.”

“A friend?”

Why did Mark have to have so many questions? Why now?

“Yeah, Sims, she's, uh, she’s real-”

“Oh!” A sparkle caught in Mark’s eye, and a lead anchor hooked onto Martin’s guts, “A girl?”

Mark, now having found what he believed to be a common latching on point, walked over to Martin, swinging an arm around to place a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, if you have a little female friend to _spend the days with_ I’ll keep out of your hair about it.”

Martin felt a little ill. Mark continued.

“You can always borrow my truck, you know. It's no convertible and I can’t say you’ll be Ferris Bueller tooling around Chicago, but you and your friend can go for rides! Get out a little and all.”

“Yeah, thanks Mark, I’ll-”

“Hell why don’t you go take her out for the day today? I’ll cover gas for you too.”

Just as Martin thought Mark was done, that he was going to walk away and let this go, he turned to Martin and said, “If this doesn't impress your lady friend into letting you get some action, nothing will.”

Martin stared into his oatmeal and wondered if it was possible for him to melt into it. To become one with the oats. 

Oatmeal never had to have these kinds of conversations.

\------

Martin’s hands sweat against the cheap pleather of the steering wheel. What if Sims thought he was a pretentious bastard for showing up in a car after he’d established a routine of walking to her work?

Nerves gathered in his intestines, hooking his insides and pulling towards the center of the earth. His arms felt numb. He was swimming in everything.

Pulling up to the Sprinkle’s Ice Cream Parlor, Martin prepped for the worst.

Sims ducked outside the main door, jaw open.

“You have a truck?” she exclaimed, half yelling so Martin could hear her while still in the truck.

Martin slid out, grabbing the keys, and half jogging over to the store.

“Yeah, er, well, it's not my car, it's my mom’s boyfriend, but he let me borrow it.”

Sims sprinted inside, stripped off her apron, and shoved it behind the counter. Flipping the sign in the ice cream parlor’s door to the closed side, Sims turned to Blackwood, stars in her eyes.

“I’m on break now, let’s go for a joyride.”

\------

Sims almost immediately pulled down the window, pointing down streets and roads for Martin to drive down.

Martin almost slid threw a red light because he was watching Sim’s hair move in the wind.

\------

“Sims, do you want to try to drive a bit?”

“I can’t drive.”

“Oh, uh, do you want to like, learn?”

“Huh?”

“I mean, I can teach you?”

“Really?”

“Yeah! Let me pull over, we can swap.”

\------

Sims took to driving like a fish took to advanced calculus. They were constantly speeding or going so slow the cars around them honked up a storm. She never used the turn signals and slammed on the breaks.

She only half listened to anything Martin said and tended to charge headfirst into anything.

Blackwood found it painfully endearing. 

\------

“Do you ever think about how easy it could be to just run away?”

“Does he have the right of way here, or do I?”

“Ah, he does.”

“Thanks.”

“Mhm”

“What do you mean, Blackwood?”

“Well he’s the furthest right at this intersection so-”

“No, I mean running away.”

“Oh, I didn’t think you heard that.”

“I did.”

“Well, I just meant that like, we have access to a car and it's not like your grandma or my mother are particularly tight about what we do. We could just leave.”

“The police could still catch us and we’d have to pay for gas and food.”

“Yeah, it's just a daydream i guess.”

“I think it's a nice dream, at least.”

“Thanks, now make sure to use your turn signal here.”

\------

Martin’s mother never looked at him other than to fight and to criticize. Even then, she recognized him so rarely they could go weeks without talking. 

Martin felt like it shouldn’t hurt him when his mother yelled anymore, when she ignored him. Yet, here he was, sitting on the thin sand of the beach after he’d burst into tears while out with Sims. He couldn’t even pin down what made him break. It had been three days since his mother interacted with him.

As he sat there, curled up and covering his face, Sims sat down beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re right.”

Martin sniffed, wiping his nose with the back of his hand before looking up, question evident on his face.

Sims’s thumb rubbed slow circles into his shoulder. 

“We could just leave,” she continued, “if we just grab the car we could leave for a few days at least.”

“Are you sure?”

“I-” she stilled for a moment, combing through thoughts, “I know I can’t give forever but we can take a few days. Your mom will be fine, my grandmother won’t notice. You were right.”

Martin turned and made eye contact with Sims. She looked painfully sincere. 

The something in Sims’ eyes lodged something in Blackwood’s throat. He moved his hand over hers and nodded. 

“Gather up all the spare cash you can grab and meet me outside the theater tomorrow at five.”

\------

The sun had only started to break through the horizon when Martin pulled up to see Sims sitting on the curb, holding a backpack.

She grinned and threw herself into the truck.

“Let’s go.” She said and that was all Martin needed.

\------

“Just keep to this road as we’ll be out of town like that.” Sims said, twisting her left hand in a silent snapping motion. 

“What’s that?”

“What?”

“The hand thing.” Martin said, miming the motion back to her.

“Ah, I don’t know how to snap.”

“You don’t? Hold on, I’ll teach you.”

Single handedly teaching Sims how to snap her fingers while he drove was difficult, but infinitely worth it after seeing Sims figure it out.

\------

Snap.

Snap.

Snap.

“Okay, you can stop snapping your fingers now.”

“I don’t think I quite can, Blackwood.”

“You are insufferable sometimes.”

Snap.

“I know.”

\------

Twenty minutes into their trip and a million miles from either of their guardians, Sims began to rifle through her bag with the fervor of a starving man.

“Blackwood, does this car have a CD player?” She asked.

“It does! Right in the center.” Martin lightly tapped the long empty CD player.

After having found what she was searching for, Sims looked at Martin, excitement in her eye.

“Nice, now, I’m going to blow your mind.”

Out of the corner of his vision, Martin could see Sims fiddling with a CD and it’s case. The case appeared to be an image of a scratched up piece of wood.

“It’s a pretty new album from this American band, My Chemical Romance, I had to sneak it past my grandmother because she’d hate this kind of music. But it’s the kind of stuff that will change your life.” Sims babbled as she pressed the CD into the slot.

Martin thought that there was a whole lot that was changing his life this summer.

Out poured a cracking sound, giving way to the soft plucking of a guitar.

Sims was grinning ear to ear.

After a minute or so, the plucking faded out and transitioned into fast guitar and hard drums, Sims started to move her head in time to the music. Martin couldn’t help but smile.

When the word started, Sims joined in immediately. Her voice wasn’t particularly beautiful or polished, but it was raw and honest and loud and fast.

Blackwood couldn’t have thought of a better voice to sing along to some song about drugs and pride.

\------

“Sims.”

“Yes, Blackwood?”

“Do we have a map?”

Both Sims and Blackwood say in silence, realizing that their perfect escape plan had not included a map or a destination. 

“I think there’ll be a gas station coming up soon.”

“Sounds great, tell me when to pull over.”

\------

Parking the car, Sims slipped out the passenger side before Martin had fully stopped the truck. Martin quickly followed her in, keeping his eyes peeled for any maps of the area. 

After a few seconds of searching under the dull hum and artificial glow of the fluorescent lights, Blackwood found a stack of free road maps. Snatching one up, Martin turned around, smile on his face, ready to tell Sims that they could get back on the road, only to realize Sims was not behind him.

Instead, Sim was at the cash register, clutching a plastic bag and handing the underpaid cashier a few bills.

Noticing his eyes on her back, Sims whirled around, snatching the recite and stomping towards Martin, the sound of her too-big Docs resounding through the store.

“I got a map…” Martin said, trailing off.

“Great, lets go.” Sims replied, tone stern and closed off.

\------

Sitting in the car, Sims opened the rumpled plastic bag, pulling out a pair of scissors. Martin sat, holding the key to the ignition without pressing it in as he watched her pull off the packaging.

Sims turned to him, eyebrows furrowed, shoulders to her ears, determination in her eyes, and said, “I’m going to cut my hair.”

A declaration, not a question.

“Alright.” Martin replied, quick as he could.

Her shoulders lowered, the left corner of her mouth pricking upwards.

“Thanks.” She said, thanking him for millions of things neither of them could name.

Something between Martin’s ribs simmered, and once again he felt like he was truly not lonely. 

Martin started up the truck, and Sims glued her eyes to the scissors, watching the light play off them.

\------

“Left turn up here.”

Martin nodded, throwing on his turn signal and turning the car.

“No, Blackwood, my left!”

“Your left? We have the same left?”

“The other left then!”

\------

As the two of them sped out on the road, guided by a shitty paper map and their own intuition. Trees flew by the window. Sims only rolled up her window once the wind began to blow the map into her face. 

Sims rested the map in her lap, resting her right hand on the center console. Lightly drumming her fingers to the beat of the song.

Blackwood wished he was a good enough driver to steer one handed, wished he could place his hand over Sims.

\------

Sims knew every word to every song on I Brought You My Bullets, You Brought Me Your Love, and was not scared to shout-sing along to all of it.

Martin wished he knew the songs well enough to join in. 

After voicing this concern, Sims told him they’d just have to listen to the CD on repeat until he did.

Martin was thrilled.

\------

“I’ve always wanted to write songs like Robert Smith.”

“Really? I would have thought you’d only be interested in writing novels long as War and Peace.”

“Har har, you hypocrite. You can write _poetry_ but I’m weird for wanting to write songs.”

“Okay, I never said you were weird and I don’t write _poetry_.”

“Why don’t you?”

“Write poetry?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I just- I’m no Keats.”

“Keats was a wordy prick.”

“Hey!”

“Anyway, I think you should.”

Martin stilled, eyes on the road, as both trees and silent seconds flew by.

“Thanks, I, well, I might.”

\------

Night had started to fall slowly, just scraping the tops of the trees before either of them took real notice. Martin turned to Sims for a moment, who was hunched over the map, still trying to read in the poor light. 

“Is there anywhere that we can stop for the night?”

“Not a hotel, no.”

Martin bit his lip, nerves building.

“But,” Sims continued, “if you drive down that trail there we should be able to park and sleep in the car.”

“Sims, that’s illegal...”

“Alright, alright, there’s a motel after the next exit.”

\------

The receptionist eyed up Blackwood and Sims as they stood under the artificial yellow light of the lobby.

Martin could only imagine what she was seeing. A five-foot girl in baggy clothes and two flannels, holding a backpack and a plastic bag, looking as if she would fight anyone who denied them a room. Then, there was Martin, visibly sweating, six-foot something and built like a brick wall, hunched over and toying with his hands, half hiding behind Sims. 

Sims took the initiative, slapping down a few bills onto the counter.

“We’d like to get a room, please.”

The receptionist raised an eyebrow towards Martin.

“Uh, yeah, yes, we’d, uh, we’d like a room.”

Great job Martin, he thought, very confident. Maybe the receptionist didn’t hear your obvious voice crack through all the stuttering. 

Apparently, that was enough, as the receptionist slid a key across the countertop. Sims snatched it up and began to tug Martin towards their room.

\------

Sims walked into the room, tossed her backpack down and walked toward the bathroom immediately. 

Martin walked into the room and set down his duffle bag on the bed.

The bed.

The one bed.

_Shit._

Martin immediately sprang into action, searching through the closet and drawers for any spare blankets or pillows so he could sleep on the floor.

He was only able to find one, thin blanket before Sims called him over. Blackwood walked to the bathroom and stood outside the closed door.

“Blackwood, do you know anything about cutting hair?”

“Oh yeah, I’ve been cutting my hair for awhile now.”

“Thank the Lord. I need some help.”

Sims pushed the door open, revealing her choppy, messy hair. She held the scissors in a death grip before gently pressing them into Blackwood’s hands.

“I can only really do one haircut, the one I have but…”

“That would be great, Blackwood.”

Sims sat down on the bathtub. Martin took a slow breath and raised the scissors to her hair.

\------

“Is that black hair dye?”

“Yeah.”

“Why’d you buy that? Your hair is already black.”

“Ah, well, I bought it for you if you wanted. I just thought that I was changing my hair, and, well, you know…”

Martin snipped off the last bit off the back of Sims’ hair.

“I’d, uh, I’m honored. I’d love to dye my hair, with you.”

\------

Sims massaged the dye into his hair, aggressively at first, then slowly, getting every inch of his hair and every one of his roots.

She had a determination in her eyes that Blackwood had only seen in Greek statues. 

After triple checking over every strand of hair, Sims stripped off the gloves, tossing them into the bin, and then threw herself down on the side of the bathtub, pressing herself against Martin’s side.

She let out a long breath, then set her head against his shoulder, careful to avoid the dye.

“Now, we just wait thirty minutes and we’ll be two new men, Blackwood.”

\------

Stepping out of the bathroom after a shower with a shower wrapped around his shoulders to catch the water dripping out of his new, black hair, Martin saw Sims sprawled out on the left side of the bed. She patted the right side of the bed, gesturing for him to sit down.

“So, you like it?” Sims asked.

“Yeah, I really love it. You?”

“I adore it. I never want it to change.”

Martin smiled, turning towards the wall.

Sims continued, “I’m going to call my grandmother. Tell her that I’m at a friend’s house for the night. Do you want to call your mom?”

Martin huffed, “Why bother, she won’t notice.”

“Still, we don’t want the cops called on us.”

She pushed herself up and placed a hand on his back.

“Alright. I’ll leave a voicemail.”

\------

“How’d it, uh, go?”

“Fine. She was pretty unhappy that I left without telling her, but I think she was happy I was out of the house for her bingo night. No one wants their weird granddaughter hanging around because she doesn’t have any friends.”

“Sims…”

“It’s fine. She’s fine. It’s not like she’s a bad guardian. She makes sure there’s food in the house and that there’s a roof over my head. ”

Blackwood didn’t have an answer, but looking at Sims’ shaking shoulders, he opened up his arms.

She let him wrap her arms around her, and he felt the tension in her muscles drop.

“Hey, I don’t think it’s okay and, like, its okay to not be okay about it. I’m there with you Sims, we’re here together.”

Martin could feel Sims’ tears bleed through his t-shirt, and he held her tight as he could for as long as he could.

\------

Martin faced the wall while he called his mother, holding the cold plastic of the hotel phone up to his ear.

The call went to voicemail, as predictable. Martin spit out a basic explanation. That he was at a friend’s place, that he’d be back soon, that he loved her and would stay safe.

He set the phone down a bit more aggressively than intended.

Sims came in from the other room, fresh after changing into her baggy pajamas. Sims looked at him, sat down next to him, and placed a pen and a pad of paper in his hands.

“For poetry.” she said.

Martin opened and closed his mouth several times, unable to find the words. Tears pricked at his eyes. Sims opened her arms and moved them around him.

He wrapped his arms around her, and the two of them sat there, holding each other.

\------

“Blackwood.”

“Yes?”

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping?”

“Blackwood, get off the floor. You’re not sleeping down there.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, just get up here. It’s cold here anyway.”

\------

 _Hands_ by M. Blackwood

You tie my soul up in knots,  
My dreams into paintings of you,

Your left pinky has a callous on it,  
Small and rough,  
You told me it was from gloves you wore all last winter,  
I wish I knew you last winter,

Even in the Summer heat,  
When my palms sweat and cry,  
I cannot let go of yours,

\------

When Martin woke up, he found he was curled around Sims like an octopus. Almost immediately he scrambled backwards, catching himself on the blanket, and falling off the side of the bed.

Groggily, Sims sat up and said, “Wha- Blackwood are you okay?”

“Uh, yeah, mhm, yep, perfectly good, all good, that’s just how I wake up! Have to, well, you know, really jump out of bed! I’m going to the bathroom now. I have to piss.”

Martin half ran his way to the bathroom, where he locked the door and pressed his forehead against it.

Great job, Martin. Real smooth. “I have to piss.” Fantastic work.

\------

Once they were both dressed, brushed, and had eaten a breakfast of dry cereal that Sims’ packed, they returned their room key and headed out to the car.

“Are we going back?” Blackwood asked.

“I, yeah, I think it would be a good idea. My, uh, grandmother already threatened to alert the police if I’m not back and I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

“Calling the cops already? Isn’t that a bit fast?”

“I had a bit of a tendency to wander off when I was younger, and, well, the cops are pretty well acquainted with my grandmother and I.”

\------

“I spy with my little eye… something that begins with ‘T’.”

“Trees.”

“Did you cheat?”

“Blackwood how would I cheat at I Spy?”

“Psychic mind tricks.”

“If I had psychic mind tricks I’d do something other then cheat at car games.”

“Yeah that’s exactly what someone who would use their secret psychic powers to cheat at car games would say. I’m betrayed, Sims, I thought we were friends, yet you kept your secret mind powers secret from me.”

\------

“Was this for nothing?”

“Why do you think that?”

“Well, we only left for a day and we spent almost all of it driving. We didn’t see anything, didn’t do anything life changing.”

“I think we did.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I’m never going to forget this.”

“I think you’re right.”

“I usually am.”

\------

Martin knew he was going the same speed on the way back, but the trees seemed to creep by instead of fly. 

“Have you seen any cars around?” Sims asked.

“No, not for the past like fifty miles.”

Sims slipped her CD back into the car and cracked the volume as loud as the old speakers could go.

“Let’s floor it.” 

If Martin was being reasonable, he would have told Sims that speeding was dangerous. 

Martin wasn’t being reasonable, he was in platonic-romantic-confusing love.

The gas pedal was touching the floor of the car before Blackwood thought twice about it.

\------

Martin wouldn’t normally consider himself a good singer, but he thought that the two of them sounded pretty good belting out My Chemical Romance tracks while doing one hundred in a sixty.

\------

“Oh! Is that a deer?”

“Yeah, it is?”

“I’ve never seen one in person! It's like an Old God! A creature of the Old Forest!”

“Take a good look, Blackwood. See nature’s might and all that.”

“Just because you can’t appreciate the beauty of the outdoors doesn’t mean I can’t!”

Sims laughed, half to herself as Blackwood shook his head, muttering about how she should be the urbanite between them.

\------

“I never realized how sharp the transition is until now.”

“Hm?”

“It goes from forest and trees to buildings like that.”

Sims snapped her fingers in demonstration, slim smile across her face.

“It’s all gone in one second.” She continued.

“I guess it is.”

\------

Pulling up in front of Sims’ house, Martin was stuck by how impersonal it felt. The house was a pale beige and had no soul. It looked nothing like Sims.

Sims’ shoulders were angled towards the floor. She toyed with her backpack with one hand and held the other on the car door’s handle. 

She pulled the door open and turned to Blackwood.

“Thanks for everything. It, well, it means the world.”

Sims grabbed Blackwood’s hand and pressed a quick kiss to his middle knuckle. She slipped out the car and closed the door before Martin could say anything.

\------

Martin sat in the car, face pressed into the steering wheel as he tried to process what just happened. The thing in his chest was going wild, moving like a storm of horses, warm and sharp, constantly mutating, pulling at his core.

Blackwood was almost certain his face would never not be red.

\------

Martin’s mother never pointed out the oil slick that had replaced his hair. He kind of wished she had. Wished she’d screamed and yelled about it. Grounded him for months. 

She barely looked at him enough to recognize his hair had changed from pale red to ink black.

\------

Blackwood didn’t see Sims for a week. Nothing at the ice cream parlor, nothing at the library, nothing at the beach or in the town. Slowly, Martin began to go out less and less, spending more of his time in his bedroom, writing half finished poetry and moping. 

\------

 _Isolated_ by Martin

I am made of fog,  
Empty and cold,  
Made for destitute rooms and empty hallways,

….

\------

 _Lonely_ by Martin Blackwood

Isolated,  
Fog ridden,  
Cold,

I can’t finish this 

I miss you Sims

\------

He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling long after the sun had risen. He’d pushed boundaries too far. Sleeping in the same bed was wrong. Sims knew the warm, squirming, confusing feelings that had rooted in his guts when he looked at her, and she was disgusted.

Maybe Martin was just disgusting.

Martin was prepared to spend the rest of the summer falling apart, drifting down this line of thought.

Until he heard a thunk outside his window.

Then another thunk.

Then another.

Why should Martin care. It was probably some bird suicide-diving the window. 

A handful of thunks came, rapid fire, until Martin pulled himself off the bed, threw open the window, and got hit in the chest by a small rock.

Looking down, Blackwood saw the grinning face of Sims, standing below his window, holding a handful of pebbles.

“Thank God, Blackwood, I was almost out of rocks.”

\------

 _Wonder_ by Blackwood

You came into my life, and changed it all,  
Your smile, your wonder, your anger, your rage,

You open my eyes like windows to world’s I’d never seen,

I think I might love you

\------

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up gaymers, today im bringing u more sad gaytrans yearning straight from my shit brain! this ch now has an illustration i did of the boys!!!
> 
> Me: lets just slide back into writing this fic since its been awhile. u know. take it slow. vibe. follow the plan. the first chapt u wrote after getting back was like 1,000-2,000 words? thats good. keep it there.  
> also me: okay but what if 4,500+ word road trip chapter?
> 
> god i have alot to talk about so this is gonna be a longer end note. bc this isnt just the end note for a new chapt in my fic, this is my personal area where i ramble about shit thats going on in my life. bc i want to
> 
> anyway! i realized im asexual recently!! i had a great conversation w my partner and im still looking for a micro label that closely fits my experiences, but yeah!! ace pride!! :-D thank u Mr. Sims for causing this revalation
> 
> also!! i co-wrote an album about being trans and being raised catholic w a super cool goth band! Listen to it [here!!](https://cadavercable.bandcamp.com/album/he-hymn) its fucked up and evil music to trans ur gender to
> 
> also also thank u to my lovely gf who beta read most of this chapter! i stuck a few scenes in afterwards bc i wanted to write more agshjd
> 
> also also ALSO title from picture of my dress by tmg. orginally i was only gonna do lofi songs for the kid chapters, but Holy Fuck getting into knives was WAY too good to shelve for the next adult chapt. 
> 
> also also also also, thank u all sm for commenting and kudos and all that jazz!! it makes my fuckign day ashdj yall have no idea how much i read and re-read comments,,, i love yall


	9. Stay warm inside the ripple/ Of the panasonic hum It grinds and it roars/ Headed somewhere better/ If I have to crawl there on all fours

Knock.

Martin was going to die here. Here, in his shitty little flat, cold and isolated. 

Knock.

If he wasn’t ripped to shreds by evil, flesh eating worms, he would starve to death. Martin had been eating nothing but canned peaches for days. 

Knock.

He was going to die here. With fog draping itself across the windows, condensation growing on window panes. 

After the initial panic that coursed through and subsequently left Martin, a creeping emptiness began to lay itself over the flat. Towels clogged the air vents and plugged the cracks under doorways. Wallpaper peeled and the faucet dripped. Prentiss knocked.

Knock.

No matter what Martin did he couldn’t escape the noise Prentiss made, much less the flat she kept him in. He didn’t have his phone, and even if he did, Martin struggles to think of what he would do. Calling anyone would be condemning them to death by worm woman. He’d tried shouting out from his window, but the fog was so thick it swallowed his voice from the street below. 

Knock.

Maybe someone would find him when they come to investigate why he hasn’t been paying for his mother’s care. She’d probably be happy she doesn’t have to field his calls any longer. Martin wished he could feel bad about abandoning her like that. 

Knock.

Maybe Elias would send someone when he stopped appearing at his job. Martin knew he wouldn’t, it had been two weeks of radio silence, but it was nice to imagine.

Knock.

Martin was going to die here. 

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Martin needed to get away from that _noise._

He yanked himself upward, off the couch, casting off his blankets. He needed to get up, get out, get away.

Martin walked as fast as he could without running, as far away from the door as he could. He pushed himself into his little bedroom

He could still hear the thumping of Prentiss’ rotting fist against the door, but it was muffled enough he could almost ignore it.

\-------

One thing Martin realized about being trapped inside his flat, was that he did not have that many things in his house and even less in his bedroom. He had already re-organized all of his books twice, sorted through all his clothes ranking all his button downs from favorite to least. He made and remade his bed. He counted all the floorboards. It had only been about three hours since he abandoned the couch for the sanctity of his bedroom.

Finally, out of boredom, Martin laid down on the floor, hands folded on his stomach, looking up at the ceiling. He could practically hear the worms squirming outside his flat. He really was going to die here.

He waited there several minutes, then he rolled over to get up, seeing a couple of cardboard boxes under his bed. He pulled them out, bushing off years worth of dust and cobwebs. Martin must not have moved these since he got the flat.

The larger of the boxes was filled with clothes that were too small. Sweaters and pairs of pants he’d been meaning to donate. A little boring, but Martin entertained himself by folding and color coding all of the clothes. 

Martin peeled open the second box and was surprised at first, as it was nearly completely empty. At the bottom, nearly on its own, was a battered pad of paper accompanied by a wrinkled, old photo. 

He pulled out the photo, recognizing the faded figures immediately. Sims had one of her arms strung around Martin’s neck, the sides of their heads pressed together as they smiled. Martin smiled, then winced looking at his pitch black hair. He didn’t notice how harshly it washed him out until now. It really had been ages since then. Bournemouth felt galaxies away in that moment.

He cringed harder when he realized that the pad of paper held his first meager attempts at poetry. Jesus, teen Martin, he thought, what were you doing? Still, he couldn’t hold it in himself to be that embarrassed by his past self. He’d been seventeen, and he’d made some stupid choices, but he couldn’t regret any of it.

\-------

One thing Martin noticed about being trapped inside his flat with a pad of his teenage poetry and a photo from a summer centuries ago, was that his mind could really run wild with possibilities when he was bored. He couldn’t stop thinking about what Sims could be up to.

He hoped she’d gotten to go to whatever college she wanted to. Martin couldn’t help but imagine her, with a stuffy doctorate, becoming a uni teacher in her own right. Oil slick hair held back by a pair of reading glasses, her signature, reedy voice ringing out as she lectured rooms full of students about english, or history, or psychology, or anything. 

He saw her, going home after a long day, to her home. It was comfortably sized, but filled with warm colors and collected nick-nacks. Books, well read and cared for, were crammed tight on the shelves. The furniture was mostly second hand, mismatched, a completed set only in their disconnection. Maybe a cat paraded around the house, walking just close enough for Sims to scratch it behind its little, orange ears. Maybe there was someone else who paraded around the house. 

He wondered if Sims found someone. He wondered if they were a girl, or a boy, or neither. He hoped Sims had found someone, had fallen in love, if she wanted love. He couldn’t imagine someone like her being isolated, being lonely. She was Sims! Hell, he knew she struggled with kids at Bournemouth, but she was magnetic. Martin hoped whoever she’d found loved her. She deserved it. 

\-------

Martin wondered what Sims would think of him now. 

\-------

Eventually, Martin became hungry enough to consider eating more of those awful, slimy, canned peaches. He braced himself, ready to submit to the infernal knocking again. 

He took a tentative step into the main room. His eyes darted to the front door, scanning for worms.

Nothing.

He took a second step, still uneasy.

Too much nothing. It hit him like a brick. The knocking had stopped. 

Martin stood there, gripping the doorway, waiting for whatever Prentiss had planned. Was she going to bust down the door? Flood his air vents with worms? 

Another beat passed, and the air remained silent.

Gentle as he could be, Martin tiptoed to the door, peering out the door’s spyhole.

There was nothing there. 

Well, that is an oversimplification. There were a few worms squirming on the bits of towel that stuck underneath the door frame, and someone must have left a window open because fog seemed to linger in the hallway, but Prentiss was gone. 

Prentis was _gone._

Martin stumbled back, mind reeling. He was free. He was going to be free. He was going to _live._

He had to get out right then. Who knows when she’d come back. Martin vaulted into his room, pulling on the first pair of shoes he saw. He picked himself up, ready to escape, before hesitating.

The pad of poetry and photo sat on his bed.

Martin took a precious second to stop, and grab the items before bolting to the door.

He paused a second time, grabbing the worm covered towel that held back the deluge of rot. He’d need proof when he told Jon what happened.

Martin didn’t pause to wonder why his first instinct was to tell Jon, a man who hated him, about what happened. Nor why his first instinct took him back to the place that got him into this mess. No, Martin simply sprinted as fast as he could to Tim’s car, mentally planning out his drive to the Institute.

\-------

Martin burst into the Institute like a mad man, panting and panicked. He was fairly certain Rosie was never going to respect him ever again, but it didn’t matter.

He pushed onward, towards the Archive stairs. 

Martin threw the Head Archivist’s door open with a vengeance. 

Jon, who appeared to have just finished a statement, jumped up at the noise, the movement sending his chair tumbling to the ground. 

“My god! Martin?” He asked.

Martin, full of terror, tossed the worm towel across Jon’s desk.

“I-I need to make a statement.”

\------

“Statement ends. You’re sure about all of this, Martin?”

“Look, I’m not going to lie to you about something like this, John. I… like my job. Most of the time.”

“Very well. In which case there’s a room in the Archives I use to sleep when working late. I suggest you stay there for now. I’ll talk to Elias about whether we can get extra security, but the Archives have enough locks for now. It’s also supposed to be humidity controlled and, though it hasn’t been working for some time, it does mean it’s well-sealed. Nothing will be sneaking through any window cracks.”

“Okay… thanks. To be honest I didn’t, didn’t expect you… to take it seriously.”

“You say you lost your phone two weeks ago?”

“Thereabouts. When I went back to the basement.”

“Well, in that time I have received several text messages from your phone, saying you were ill with stomach problems. The last one said that you thought it “might be a parasite”, though my calls trying to follow up were never answered. So, if this does involve Jane Prentiss, then I take it deadly seri-“ 

Jon paused as his phone buzzed. 

“Hang on.”

“What?”

“I just received another text message. From you. “Keep him. We have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist’s crimson fate arrives.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I ask Elias to hire some extra security. I should probably warn Sasha and Tim as well. I’ll also have a look through the Archives, as I believe we should have a statement from Ms. Prentiss herself in here somewhere.” Jon paused for a second, registering that the recorder was still running, “Recording ends.”

\------

Martin walked to the cot that was his new bed in a daze. Jon believed him. Jon believed Martin and made sure he would be safe from Prentiss. 

Martin leaned against a wall, dragging a hair through unwashed curls as the reality of the past two weeks settled heavy on his shoulders.

There, in document storage, he cried for the first time in two weeks.

\------

Jon worked late, which was unsurprising considering he had a cot there. Yet, Martin was still shocked just how late Jon was there almost every night. The midnight oil burned long past when Martin went to sleep. Sometime before Tim and Sasha left, Jon would dip into his office and Martin wouldn’t see him until he arrived at six am the next day.

Martin’s life became a cycle of wake up at six, work until seven, make a microwave dinner in the breakroom, sit and eat, waste a few hours of time, then head to bed, all while watching the dim light pouring out from the bottom of the Head Archivist’s door. 

For everything that happened, the recent worm trauma, the uncomfortable cot, the instability of his current position, Martin slept well almost all of the time. He only remembers waking up once. Slowly blinking sleep out of the corners of his eyes, he noticed that the Head Archivist’s door, Jon’s door, was wide open, light spilling out into the hall. Martin pulled himself up, eschewing the warmth of the cot for the cold hardwood of the archive floor. He didn’t know why he did it, what he expected Jon to say when Martin found him.

Jon was standing outside, in the small alley behind the Institute. He was leaning back against the brick wall, eyes closed, nose red from the cold, and looking for all intents and purposes, like he should have been holding a cigarette. As he saw Martin, he turned, exhaling and opening his eyes a crack. 

“Oh, hello, Jon.” Martin said, nerves bleeding into his tone.

“What do you need, Martin?” Jon asked.

“Just, well,” Martin trailed off for a moment before picking up again, “making sure you left at a reasonable time and all!”

“Have I been keeping you up by being here?”

“No, no, you’ve been fine.”

“Then it's no concern of yours when I leave my job.”

Jon turned away and conversation stumbled.

“I just think you should get some rest yourself.”

“Martin, it is no concern of yours-”

“Look, I know you’re my boss and all but staying here this late this long isn’t healthy! I know you don’t like me, but I can still voice concerns for your health.”

Jon shifted, and looked at Martin. Up and down, slowly, searching for something Martin did not know. His shoulders sagged and he gave one sharp, short nod, following Martin back inside the building.

It was silent, even the footsteps and ambient sounds of the building felt muffled and distant. Jon began to pack up his bag, back turned.

“I’ll only do this once.” He said.

Martin wouldn’t have expected anything else. He had no idea why Jon disliked him so much and he was shocked that this worked one time.

Jon tugged on his coat when Martin took a step towards him. Jon turned to Martin, looking up and into his eyes. Martin wanted to move his hand, to place it on Jon’s shoulder, to provide a physical comfort to the shorter man. 

Martin’s arm stayed leaden at his side. 

“Thank you. You’re a good man, Jon.”

Something in Jon’s eye gleamed and something in Martin’s throat tightened. A small, delicate smile fell across Jon’s face. The moment felt private between them, the air growing still and the world falling away from them. There was something raw in the space between Jon and Martin’s bodies. 

Jon snapped away, snatching up his bag and hurrying out of the room.

“Thank you, Martin.” He said, quiet and rushed before closing the door behind him.

Martin walked back to the cot in a daze. The thing in his throat thudded and pulsed. God, he thought, Martin Blackwood, you are _not_ allowed to get a crush on your mean, hot boss.

Your mean, hot boss who went out of his way to make sure you had a safe, sealed room when you were in danger. Your mean, hot boss who gives in when you pressure him to take care of himself. Your mean, hot boss who's thrown himself into researching Prentiss after you had an encounter. 

\------

“Alright, so now everyone has their assignments, I will be in my office, recording a statement if anyone needs me.” Jon turned on his heel, pacing back to his office, trying to make it obvious that even if anyone needs him they should _not_ bother him. Jon had given both Tim and Sasha field work, while Martin ended up with more statements to cross reference. Martin’s chest warmed when he thought about how Jon was specifically structuring his work to keep him out of danger, but he was becoming deadly bored hanging around the Archives all the time.

Martin tried not to sigh, thinking about how Jon’s hair fluttered around his neck when he turned, how the muscles in his hand shifted as he tried not to use them to talk. Martin began to flick through statement files to fill his mind with anything else. Sasha opened her mouth to say something before Tim interrupted, swinging his keys around his finger. 

“Who boy, more field work! What you all bet that I get terrorized by worm woman? Maybe I’ll meet Sasha’s knife man?” 

Sasha whacked him on his arm, shaking her head. “No,” she said, “in all honesty, you’re the one here with the best survival instincts.”

“Exactly! Have you all read the Hodge statement? With the exploding worm sex? Any of you rubes would have fallen into the arms of that art school girl and gotten wormed, but me? I don’t hook up with artists for this exact reason.” Sasha nodded her head as Tim responded.

Martin turned to his desk while Sasha continued to goad Tim. The implication of Tim’s comment dampened his mood. Martin kicked himself, he was an adult man, he had no right to get legitimately upset about a little comment. Tim didn’t _know_ Martin was gay. He’d have no reason to assume Martin _wouldn’t_ hook up with a woman. 

Martin thought about coming out, telling them that he was a gay man. But really, why bother? Martin had been ‘closeted’ for most of his life and making a big stink out of a little comment was immature. Martin ran a hand through his hair.

“Fine, fine, I’ll admit I love a good art girl.” Sasha said, breaking Martin out of his mind.

“You, uh, girls?” Martin stuttered out.

Sasha turned to him and nodded once, hard. Tim crossed his arms.

Martin realized what they must be thinking, “Oh! Oh, no--I’m not homophobic-- Actually I’m, ah, gay. I’m gay.”

Tim’s shoulders relaxed, “That’s great! I’m bi.” 

“Aromantic pansexual” Sahsa volunteered.

Martin flushed with warmth. “Oh, that’s-- that’s wonderful! I’m, ah, sorry for assuming otherwise?”

Tim waved him off, “Don’t worry, Martini! But my point still stands, if you saw a cute art _boy_ you would get wormed. Anyway, Sasha, will you do the honor of accompanying me to the parking lot so we can knock out this field work.”

Martin shook his head affectionately, watching Tim and Sasha link arms and headed out. He turned back to the statements Jon had assigned him today.

\------

The Archive was painfully empty when Tim and Sasha left. No noise other than the subtle hum of the light bulbs and the flipping of paper as he made his way through research. On a rare occasion, when Jon got into a statement, Martin could hold his breath and pressed his ears, he could hear the steady cadence of Jon’s voice. 

But that was a rare occurrence.

Sometimes, Martin joked to himself that he missed the noise of Prentiss’ knocking. Then he’d mentally shake himself, thinking of the nauseating texture of canned peaches. 

Martin sighed, slumping forward to lean on his hand while he flipped through another statement. He wondered if he could slip into pyjama pants. If Jon was going to stay in his office all day like usual, and if Tim and Sasha weren't here, there was no one to judge him for wearing the fuzzy cow pants he picked up at Walmart. But what if Elias came downstairs? He’d definitely chew Martin out for breaking the dress code. How likely is it that Elias would come downstairs, Martin wondered. Shit, could Elias fire him for breaking dress code? If Elias fired him for breaking the dress code, could he get a good recommendation for another job? Martin felt like they owed him that after he got worm-napped in his home for two weeks. Maybe Martin could start up a cafe. He’d always dreamed of that, of a quaint little life baking pastries and doing…. Whatever cafe owners do. 

“Tim, I need you to investigate--” Jon said, throwing the door open.

Martin jerked, hitting his knee on the underside of his desk as he was shocked into reality again. He whirled around to see Jon, who was looking around the empty office. 

Martin cleared his throat, “Ah, Tim isn’t here. He, uh, left to do the assignment you gave him this morning.”

Jon looked at Martin, blinked and said, “Oh.”

“What did you need him for?”

“I need follow up on this statement, 0060793, and I want Tim or Sasha to go see the hospital described.”

“I can go out and do the follow up.” Martin said, his tone wavering. 

At the same time, Jon said, “God, now I’ll either have to go myself or wait for Tim to get back.”

After they both finished, Jon looked Martin down.

“I’m not sure,” Jon began, “that sending you out is a good idea.” 

Martin’s head bobbed as he looked down towards his desk, defeated. Jon turned back to his office, mumbling under his breath.

Suddenly, Martin’s head jerked up and before he could think, he blurted out, “No, it’s not a bad idea. If you need it followed up on and don't want me to go alone we could go together.”

Jon froze, drawing in a breath, “Together?” He muttered, almost under his breath.

“Yeah, together!” Martin said, “That way we can get the information and you don’t, ah, have to worry about one of us getting stuck alone.”

Jon drew up his shoulders, moving his hand up and down the door frame, “A-alright.” 

“Alright?”

“Alright. Let’s head out. I’ll gather the papers and we’ll get an Institute car.”

Martin grabbed his bag and Jon hurried into his office and the something that lived in the space between Martin’s spine and ribs grew warm.

\------

Martin and Jon walked outside in silence, Jon walking slightly faster than Martin. He was bundled in an olive parka, both the papers he held and his hair whipped around in the wind. Martin shivered slightly, he hadn’t bought a new coat yet. 

They both stopped at the passenger’s side, hands bumping as they reached for the handle.

A beat of silence passed before they both spoke up at the same time.

“I, ah, can’t drive.”

“I thought you’d want to drive.”

They both blinked at each other before Martin continued, “You… can’t drive?”

Jon closed his eyes and jerked his head away, “Yes, well, I never quite had the ability to finish learning.”

Martin pulled his hand back, “Oh, there’s nothing wrong with that! Let me just, head over and I’ll drive.” 

He gave Jon what he hoped to be a reassuring smile as he jogged around the car.

\------

As Martin pulled his seatbelt, Jon cleared his throat, “Thank you for driving. You, well, you more than anyone know how much driving experience I have.”

Martin looked at Jon for a moment before sliding the car into reverse. He nodded, moving his eyes to the rear-view mirror, wondering what in the world Jon was talking about. He considered bringing it up, asking for clarification, but Martin was relieved that Jon was talking to him, who cares what he was talking about. Maybe he just wasn’t that good at conversation, Martin could sympathize with that.

\------

The silence rested thick on their shoulders, heavy and oppressive. Martin’s eyes flicked over to Jon, watching him pick at a loose thread on the back of his tie.

“So,” Jon spoke up, causing Martin to glance over to him, “I feel like I should have asked earlier, but how have you been, Martin?”

Martin moved a finger up and down the steering wheel, “I-- well, thank you, but I don’t know if I can say anything but the obvious.” Martin paused, huffing out a small laugh, “The mortal terror of a worm woman looms large and I do miss my flat, but all in all, I’m doing relatively okay. I have a roof, or an Institute, over my head, food, and water. So, yeah, I’m doing okay.”

Jon pulled a thread out of the back of his tie and began to twist it in his hands, “That is.... Good to hear, Martin, but I mean, how have you been doing for the past few years?”

“Is this part of, like, the interview for the position that you never got to give me?” Martin asked, starting to get a little nervous. He wished he’d looked over his lie ridden resume lately. How old had he said he was at his interview?

Jon shook his head, “No, no, of course not. I simply thought I would ask. See what you’ve been up to. Any, ah, prior jobs or things you’ve done?”

Good god, there was no good way to tell your boss that this is the first academic job you’ve ever had, Martin thought. He was certain Jon wouldn’t want to hear about his long term Tesco’s career or the under the table work he’d done. “Well, you know, I’ve been working at the Institute for awhile.” 

Jon nodded, rolling the thread between his thumb and forefinger, “I understand, The Institute has been my only major job as well.”

A beat of silence fell over the car.

“So,” Jon continued, trying to pick up conversation while Martin sweated, “where did you go to uni? I never even asked where you went to school.”

Oh God, Martin thought, is he asking about where I went for uni? Martin didn’t go to uni. Martin _lied_ about going to uni for this job. 

“Ah,” Martin’s voice nearly cracked, “The, um, University of Sheffe--” Wait, no, what if Jon went to Sheffeild? Martin wished he remembered what college he mentioned during his interview.

“The University of Sheffe- what?” Jon asked, tilting his head.

“University of Sheffeleeds.” 

“University of Sheffeleeds?”

“Yes.” 

“I haven’t heard of that school before.” Jon said while Martin mentally slapped himself. 

“Yeah it’s a pretty small school, but it’s mine.” Time to do damage control, Martin thought.

“I didn’t mean any offence,” Jon interjected, almost immediately, “I’m sure it's a lovely school.”

Martin nodded, hoping this would be the end of the topic.

“What did you major in?” 

Martin could never be lucky enough for that to be the end of the topic. At least Martin remembered this lie.

“Parapsychology.”

“Parapsychology? I minored in that. What… inspired that choice?”

Shit, Martin thought, what would a boss want to hear? “The paranormal has always been a life passion. I’ve always been fascinated with that kind of mental phenomena.”

“Always?” Jon asked, something that was almost disappointment creeping into his tone.

“Since I was a teen.” Martin said.

“I wish I’d known.” Jon said, eyes moving out the window, almost witfully, “There was a lot we would have talked about.”

What in the world was he talking about, Martin wondered, Jon was the one who avoided Martin like the plague. “Yeah, it is a shame, but there isn’t any changing the past.”

Jon nodded. Martin waited for Jon to ask another stress inducing question. When Jon didn’t, Martin wondered if he should try to make conversation. Looking over at Jon, who was now watching the London buildings fly past the window, Martin decided to allow himself a breather after the marathon of lying he just ran.

\------

No matter when Martin drove, he always found the traffic unbearable. They’d been crawling along a road for the past fifteen minutes.

Out of the corner of his eye, Martin saw Jon wrinkle his nose before speaking, “This is why no one should drive. If we all took the tube we wouldn’t have this problem.”

Martin smiled, keeping his eyes on the road.

Jon glanced over to him before continuing, the left side of his mouth turning upwards, “I’m serious! Everything could be so much more efficient. Do you even know about the technology that goes into the tube? I read this fascinating book about the engineering….” Jon trailed off for a moment, “I am sorry, that, ah, probably isn’t what you wanted to hear about.”

“Hm? No, no go on. I don’t know anything about the tube.”

“Are you… sure?”

“Absolutely!”

Jon paused for a moment, looking at Martin, seeing something Martin couldn’t recognize.

“Thank you… The tube was designed by James Henry Greathead in…”

\------

The car lulled into silence again once Jon had finished dictating the history of the tube. His talking had carried the two of them most of the way through the city and had deeply endeered Martin. He was just so passionate! It made Martin’s insides ache. 

God, he thought again, Martin Blackwood, you are _not_ allowed to get a crush on your mean, hot boss.

Your mean, hot boss who went out of his way to make sure you had a safe, sealed room when you were in danger. Your mean, hot boss who gives in when you pressure him to take care of himself. Your mean, hot boss who's thrown himself into researching Prentiss after you had an encounter. Your mean, hot boss who has a dimple on the left side of his face when he smiles. Your mean, hot boss who’s face lights up when he talks about something he cares about, who talks wildly with his hands when he’s not restraining himself.

No, Martin K. Blackwood, you could not get a crush on your mean, hot boss.

\------

Maybe Martin should check the Institute's policy on employees dating. Just in case.

\------

No, that was stupid. Jon wasn’t interested in him. Hell, Jon probably had a partner. Hell, he probably wasn’t even gay. No, there was no use getting his hopes up like that.

\------

But just maybe….

\------

Martin was always surprised how London seemed to end. One moment it was rows of buildings, square and organized, and then it was done. Spiderwebbing streets and roads intercepted and then just stopped. It scared Martin a little. It was an irrational fear, and he knew that.

Yet, a little bit of terror gripped Martin when they left the city and entered everything else. It was so easy. So easy to be in the city where he’d lived for nearly a decade, to abandon the life he’d established and built. He could be in London and in a moment no longer be in London, he could be Martin, who lived in London for years and in a moment he could be Martin, who was someone else. It was so easy to abandon everything and go. He wondered if, in another life, he would have done it, left everything on a whim. Abandon his claustrophobic flat and suffocating job, liquidate everything he has, buy a car, and leave.

Martin wondered who he would be if he was set intoxicatingly, dangerously free.

\------

“If you, uh, want you can put on some music.” Martin offered.

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

Martin steeled himself for several hours of mediocre classical music. It would be bad, it would be dry, but Martin wouldn’t make Jon sit in silence because he couldn’t start a conversation. 

“Yeah, sure! I’m pretty sure the car even has an aux cord bouncing around somewhere.”

That secret little smile that Martin saw back in the Archives flitted across Jon’s face for a brief moment.

“Alright, although I’ll admit my taste has changed.”

Changed from what, Martin wondered, as Jon fiddled with the cord, plugging his phone in after several seconds.

The car was silent for a moment before a cacophony of guitars and drums hit Martin head on. He nearly slammed on the breaks, turning to Jon with wild eyes as the singer started, her voice loud and aggressive. 

Jon looked away, staring out the window, but Martin could have sworn he saw a crooked smile cross Jon’s face.

“So, uh, who is this?” Martin asked, wondering if he could turn the volume down without Jon noticing.

“An American band called ‘Against Me!’ ” Jon said.

Martin hummed, training his eyes on the road, dreaming of Mitsuki and Hoizer.

\------

“Turn right up ahead.” Jon said, staring at the directions on his phone.

Martin glanced over to Jon, remembering the three previous times Jon told him to go right when he actually needed Martin to go left. 

Jon met Martin’s eyes, “Yes, I mean your right.”

Martin shook his head, “We have the same--”

“Just turn, we’re about to miss the exit.” Jon interrupted. 

Martin switched on this turn signal and moved to the turn lane.

Jon kept his eyes on his phone before pulling in a breath through his teeth and rifling through his stuff.

“Something wrong?” Martin asked.

“My phone… might have died.”

“Your…. Phone died?”

“I forgot to plug it in last night.”

“Do we have another form of directions?”

Jon shook his head, checking the glove compartment.

Shit, Martin thought, before saying, “Look through my bag. I might have something.”

Jon took the bag and after a moment, looked back to Martin, “Nothing. Do you have your phone?”

“Prentiss.”

“Ah.”

“Could there be anything else we could use?”

Jon opened the glove box again, taking out every object to look through them.

“Aha!” Jon whipped out a creased paper map.

“Do you know how to navigate with that?”

“It’s been a while, but I can.”

\------

Navigating via paper map was odd. The large thing was spread out across Jon’s lap and part of the dashboard. It took Jon several minutes to find an approximation of where they were located, and even longer to find where they were headed. He kept tracing their route over and over with his finger, trying to commit it to memory

Eventually, Jon looked away from the map and began to put away all of the contents that filled his lap. He moved, methodically, placing objects back in their proper places until he came upon Martin’s pad of paper, the poetry he’d written years ago.

He paused, tracing a thumb around the ragged edge. He opened his mouth, starting several sentences before trailing off.

Martin glanced over, “Oh, never mind that. It’s just, well, it’s just an old, sentimental thing.”

Jon’s eyes were glued to the notebook, “Did you, ah, keep up with writing poetry? After this?”

Martin shrugged, “Not really, I never quite had the time. I read poetry from time to time, but I never quite took off with writing it.”

Jon flipped through the pages, barely looking at the words, but taking the entire object in. He cleared his throat and put it into his bag. “Did you enjoy it?”

Martin nodded.

“I think you should try it again. If you enjoyed it.”

Their eyes met in the windshield mirror.

“I might.”

Jon nodded, breaking eye contact, moving back to the map.

Martin’s eyes moved back to the road, thinking of prose for the first time in years. Jon had surprised him once again, who knew he cared about poetry? 

\------

Jon huffed, combed a hand through his hair and pulled down the mirror. “You wouldn’t happen to have a hair tie would you?”

Martin shook his head.

“Ah,” Jon dragged his hand through his hair again, “shame. I should probably cut my hair sometime. Dye my greys at least” 

“I don’t think you do.” Martin blurted out.

“Hm?” 

“I, ah, think it looks really nice as is. I don’t think it’s messy looking.”

“Oh, thank you.”

“Nor do I think you need to dye the greys,” Martin continued, verbal vomiting, “I think they make you look distinguished.” 

Jon cleared his throat, “Thank you, Martin. While I’m not a huge fan of the grey, but they do help me look my age.” Jon shot Martin a rye smile and made air quotes around the phrase ‘my age’.

Martin hummed, “It’s good to know that you’re comfortable with that kind of visual aging. Most men around your age tend to be overly sensitive about that. I’ve never much understood it.”

“W-what?” Jon asked.

“Well, you, ah, mentioned your greys?"

“I’m… not that old?”

Shit, Martin thought.

Jon turned, brow furrowed, “How do you…. Did you see my CV?” 

“Why would I have needed to see your CV?” 

Jon, brushing a hand through his hair once more, “I, ah, might have…. lied on my CV.”

Martin’s eyebrows skyrocketed. _Jon_ lied on his CV.

“Don’t give me that look,” Jon said, rolling his head to look away, “I don’t think I could have gotten the job if I hadn’t said I was a decade older.”

Martin was gobsmacked, shaking his head gently. _Jon_ lied on his CV. 

Jon gently slapped Martin on his arm, “Stop it, I know you lied on your CV as well.”

Martin swerved the car so hard they nearly went off the road.

“What? How!?”

Jon raised an eyebrow as he clutched the grab handle to steady himself, “Are you okay?”

Martin was not okay. 

“How did you know I lied on my CV?”

“Christ, Martin, it’s not that serious,” No, Martin thought, it was very serious, “I just know you aren't nearly as old as you wrote down.”

“You… noticed I _just_ lied about my age?” 

“Yes?”

“And you’re not going to fire me?”

“Martin, why would I fire you when we both lied about our age?”

Martin laughed, still burning off the last dredges of nervousness, “No reason!”

Jon laughed, genuinely humorous, “I promise you, your secret is safe with me.”

Martin drew in a breath, released it, and joined Jon in humor.

\------

“How much longer is the drive?” Martin asked, breaking the quiet.

Jon hummed and traced over the route again, “About an hour or so, then we’ll be there for two more hours, then we’ll drive back.”

Martin almost groaned, “Do you want to stop at all to stretch out legs?”

Jon’s head stayed down, “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The car lapped into silence for a moment, before Jon’s head shot up, “Oh! Do you want to get out for a bit?”

Martin nodded.

“Here, let me just,” Jon paused, running his hand over the maps before pausing on an area close to their route, “There’s a place not too far off.”

Martin smiles, “Alright, just give me the directions.”

\------

After several minutes, Martin pulled the car over, parking next to a field. Both Martin and Jon pulled open their doors and stepped out. Martin stretched his arms over his head, sighing while Jon leaned over the hood of the car. 

“This has been a nice day.” Martin said.

Jon looked up, beaming, “It has been.” He rolled his neck and met Martin’s eyes again, “I’m sorry.”

“Hm?”

“I’ve been meaning to apologize for awhile. I should have done it earlier. I understand we had a bit of a… conflict when we met, but I have trouble really believing that you meant it with any real harm. I realize now that it was most likely a misstep and was no justification for how I treated you. I’m sorry, Blackwood, you deserved better.”

Martin ran a hand over the top of the car, letting all the things he could say sit on his tongue like mulled wine.

“Thank you.”

Jon smiled again and Martin’s eyes lingered on the one dimple that occupied the left side of his face. 

\------

The last segment of the car ride passed in light, comfortable silence. They reached the town near the haunted hospital. 

“Where do we start?”

“Pull over to the neighborhood outside the hospital. I’d like to interview a few residents.”

\------

Martin slowed the car as they neared the house, when Jon popped out of the car. Martin slammed on the breaks, hurrying out as Jon strode to the house.

“Don’t jump out of moving cars!” 

“Hm? The car had basically stopped.”

“But--”

“Be quiet, we’re almost at the house.”

Jon threw up an arm to keep Martin behind him, then knocked on the door. Several seconds passed before a tall, blond woman opened the door. 

“Hello, do you need--” The woman started, before Jon cut her off.

“Have you ever been menaced by a ghost cat?”

The blond woman slowly closed the door in their faces.

\------

Nearly the exact same thing happened, rinse and repeat, for the next three houses Jon matched them to. 

“What if you let me try talking?”

Jon raised an eyebrow, “The people here seem to be pretty hostile.”

“Just let me take a shot at it.”

“Alright.”

\------

The next house they neared, Martin took the lead, ringing the doorbell. A man opened the door, holding his shoulders to his ears as he looked at them.

“Hello there, sir, my colleague and I are from the Magnus Institute. We’re here investigating some goings on from the hospital. Have you heard about anything in relation to the hospital?”

The man looked at Martin before relaxing and leaning against the doorframe. 

“The hospital? Yeah, I know about that. People always say that if you go close you can see flashes of movement and hear the ghosts moving.” The man moved his hand in the air, waving his fingers.

“Do you believe that the hospital is haunted?”

The man shook his head, “No, it’s a whole lot of bull.”

Martin nodded, “Alright, that will be enough, thank you for your time.”

“Best of luck with your investigation.” The man said, while he waved Jon and Martin off.

As they walked away, Jon took out his notebook and jotted down several bullet points before saying, “Maybe your method has some merit.”

“Thank you.”

\------

Nearly the exact same thing happened, rinse and repeat, for the next four houses Martin walked them to.

“Martin, you would have made a great researcher.”

Martin laughed.

\------

Eventually, Jon told Martin that they had enough information from possible witnesses. 

“Alright, so now we-”

“Break in.”

“-go home.”

Martin’s head snapped around, staring Jon “Business and Professionalism” Sims down.

“Why are you looking at me like that? We’re doing follow up, we can’t just _leave_ without seeing inside the building.”

\------

The hospital was surrounded by a towering, metal fence and tight, clustered trees.

“We need to get in and look around the room where the event took place.” Jon paused, flipping through his notes, “The hospital room where the ‘ghost cat’ was seen is on the third floor.”

Jon placed his notes back into his satchel before grabbing the fence and sticking his foot into the fence. 

“Jon, what are you doing?”

Jon pulled himself up, finding another foothold before looking back to Martin.

“I’m climbing the fence.” Jon said, his tone tipping towards ‘what did you think I was doing?’.

“This is an awful idea.” Martin said, while watching Jon scale the fence with a shocking speed and began preparing to climb the tall, tall fence himself.

\------

The hospital room where the statement took place looked much like the rest of the building, run down, crack filled, and illegal to be in. Jon jumped right into taking notes, making down a nearly impossible amount of information in his loopy, tight handwriting. 

Martin followed Jon into the room, looking up at the water stained ceiling tiles. Martin wondered if it would be dangerous, if the ceiling might cave in and give them trouble. He was entranced, right until foot caught on a displaced tile and sent him sprawling forward, vomiting the contents of his bag across the moldy floor.

“Are you okay?” Jon asked, bending down to help Martin up.

Martin nodded, rubbing the arm he fell on as he began to gather up his things. 

“Here, let me help.” Jon joined Martin, picking up a pen that had fallen out of Martin’s bag.

Jon paused for a moment when he grabbed the old photo from Summers past.

“Is this…” 

Martin leaned over, placing a hand on the photo, “It’s just an old photo of my old crush and I.”

Jon’s face flushed, “Oh…”

“Yeah, she’s great.”

“Why do you keep talking about ‘her’?” Jon asked as his face darkened.

“Well, Sims was my best friend. Our connection meant the world to me. I didn’t really have many friends growing up. I don’t know if we’d still connect, but I think she’d still be _her_.” Martin supplied.

Jon stared at Martin, visibly displeased. Martin panicked, continuing, “I don’t quite believe in romanization of the past, but I don’t think I’d click with anyone like her. I still want to meet her again, like I mentioned in the bar. I feel like I’d always know her for her. I really loved her.”

Jon’s words came out quiet and cold, “Drive back to the Institute. I’ll finish the investigation and call a cab in town.”

“What?”

Jon exploded, as he threw up his hands, “I tried, I thought you’d just made a mistake, I thought you were better than this! You’re insistent on digging up a dead girl who you barely knew. She’s gone! It was one summer, _Martin_ , it didn’t mean anything.”

“But-” 

“Just go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey! thanks for reading :-D this fic has been a delight to read and ive been having a real good time writing it and reading all ur comments and stuff. sorry it took me so fuckin long to write this! ive been busy and working on [a JonGerry roadtrip fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681065/chapters/70313736) (which yall should check out).
> 
> again thank u all very much for the comments and kudos!


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